


There's No Hell Like Arkham

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Watching the World Burn [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), The Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, F/M, Hallucinations, Human Experimentation, Introspection, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsession, Psychological Horror, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-06-25 18:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: The Joker's locked up in Arkham after his failed attempt at a hostile takeover of Gotham City. Stuck in a miserable prison without his favorite playmates, the Joker finds himself in need of amusement to pass the time. But, just like everything he does, nothing goestotallyaccording to plan.





	1. Wham. Gotcha!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the DC characters that appear here and I'm making no profits from any of this.

"You may call me Dr Strange," the man in the white coat said.

" _Dr Strange?"_ the Joker mirrored back. Now, _this_ was good. " _Really?_ That the name your _momma_ gave you?"

He might have been strapped to a gurney, tied up in a straitjacket, face half-beaten in, his side giving him a _zing_ he could do without, and recovering from surgery, but the Joker's sense of humour remained intact. He had to give credit where credit was due: the good doctor didn't even twitch.

"My given name is Hugo Wilhelm Strange. But, as we are not on first-name terms, Dr Strange will suffice." Strange smiled and the Joker raised an eyebrow.

_It's like being at the dentist with this guy._

"Nice to meet ya, _Billy_."

_Pro tip, kids: go for the demeaning nicknames first._

Part of being underestimated was playing with expectations. Living up to certain behaviours.

_Lulls them into a false sense of security. You can take that to the bank._

Do that, and they'd never expect the surprise jab to the carotid.

If it wasn't for the slightest movement in Strange's mouth, he would've thought he didn't affect the man at all.

_No fun in that._

"Arkham's new facilities are efficient and effective. We have the best doctors and medical teams to treat your… illness." Strange's voice dropped a register, and suddenly the Joker wasn't so eager to have his vacation in Arkham. He scowled. The only sick people there were the ones pretending they weren't.

Arkham—back when it was in the Narrows—garnered a certain reputation before it burned to the ground. One of lax security protocols and incompetent doctors. One's you could stick in the neck easy. The state wasn't exactly _invested_ in the asylum before. Funding was minimal. Oversight nearly nonexistent. Johnny Crane changed all that _real_ quick _._

_I'll have to thank him somehow. Broken rib puncturing a lung sounds about right._

Looking at the TYGER guards in their black uniforms and flak security vests, the Joker realized this place would be more militantly run than its predecessor. If he tried hard enough to fight the drugs, he could pull back enough memories to recognize their formations, the way they held themselves. These weren't just your average mall cops. They had training, and they were worried about him enough to have a show of force right at the front door.

_Good._

But that meant he should expect more surprises coming his way.

_Usually, I'm a fan, but now..._

The main building was old—no doubt about that. Probably historic. But the buildings behind it were new, industrial. The front lawns made the place an idyllic refuge the average idiot would be OK with leaving their relatives at for extended periods— _read: years—_ at a time, but there were a _few_ signs already that the image just _didn't_ fit with reality.

_Golly, ya think?_

"Conform and comply. That is all that we ask here at Arkham. Do these things and, I assure you, your extended stay will be more pleasant and your treatment regime fruitful." He still couldn't place the man's accent. He'd heard a lot in his life, but never one like the doctor's. It bothered him. "Do we have an understanding?"

 _His chinstrap beard is_ also _bothering me._

Who grew one of those out anyway?

_You mean, besides Captain Ahab? Ooh, new nickname._

"Uh, we have an ' _understanding'_ that you can shove that up your ass and go lookin' for your _spleen,"_ the Joker said. Strange smiled widely in response, but it was forced. His glasses caught the light, obscuring his eyes. "Or maybe you need _me_ to find it. I'm great at biology," he added.

"Insults already? How boring." Strange jerked his head, and the Joker's gurney started to move. "I expected more, given your newly minted reputation, but we will get to the bottom of that megalomania in due time. Your treatment will be lengthy, stringent, and… _aggressive_."

The Joker gave his best look of offence at the insult. If he could've pointed at his chest in incredulity, he would have. He couldn't do any of those things, of course, so he settled for raising an eyebrow.

As they moved from the main foyer to the intake wing, the facility began to change. Cream walls and Victorian furniture gave way to pristine white and sanitized tile. Security gates, indifferent faces, bulky orderlies in white, nurses with psycho grins, and cold steel greeted him.

The Joker was having a harder time finding a reason to maintain his smile.

These guards didn't have guns like the ones outside did. They had batons. _Long_ ones. And tasers thick as the Joker's wrist.

Memories. Ones black and filled with bile. They were coming up and he shoved them down.

 _Nope, nope, nopity nope. Big ol' bag of_ nope.

 _There._ The Joker found a reason to laugh again. So, that's what he did. Everyone— _barring_ _Billy_ —flinched. A nurse, blonde hair, bit pudgy in the middle, shy, nervous smile, approached with a clipboard. The Joker stopped cackling long enough to snap at her like a rabid dog. He laughed again when she jumped back. The guards' hands went to their batons, but Strange waved them away, making the Joker frown.

"Now, Fiona. No need to be afraid. Our guest will learn to behave." Outstretching a hand, Strange took the clipboard and flipped over several sheets of paper. The Joker knew what was coming next. Not necessarily from experience, but because it was easy to guess. "What is your name?" he asked.

It was an intake form.

_No point in that. I'll be outta here soon. And then I'll shove that down his throat._

" _Ha._ Ha _. Ha."_

It's the only reply he'd give to that. They _knew_ his name. It was the only one that mattered and the only one they'd get.

Strange kept smiling.

"Date of birth?"

"April first, 1940."

Pencil scratched against thin paper.

"Marital status?"

"Does being married to my job count?"

Another _scritch-scratch._

"No."

"Oh, _well._ Hmm. Does the other party have to _agree_ to the nuptials? Otherwise, I've got a _lady friend_ who, uh, fits the bill."

"You speak of Miriam Kane, correct?" The Joker giggled and gave a wink. Strange looked at him with a poorly hidden look of disdain. Shaking his head, he muttered "psychotic delusions" under his breath while taking another notation.

"Children?" came the next question.

"Do _bombs_ count? I put _a lot_ of time and effort into those. Every one of 'em has an _itty_ little piece of me."

The Joker smiled fondly. The one he stuffed inside Noah was an achievement he'd never attempted before, and just look how _brilliantly_ that one turned out.

Strange nearly rolled his eyes, smile beginning to slip. The Joker's grew.

"Occupation?"

"Uh, it ain't _obvious?_ I sell _insurance,_ Doc. Tell me, your profession's quite _dangerous_. Hope you've got some. Accidents happen everywhere, y'know. _"_

Another sigh. Another scratch on the paper, slightly harder than before.

"Religion?"

"Jain."

The scratching stopped.

"You are a _Jain?"_

"An uncommon term, I know, but doin' a little bit of reading and _soul searching_ never hurt anyone—"

"No, I meant that I do not believe you."

"I'm a man of my _word_ , Billy. _Rebirth_ and living an _ethical_ life. I'm all about new beginnings and seeing how it kicks you in the teeth the next time 'round."

Strange stared at him for a moment, a rejoinder on his lips, but he bit his tongue instead. "It's also about the _preservation_ of life." Muttering, he added, "Compulsive liar."

More scratching of the pencil against the clipboard. A sheet was flipped over. The Joker could see entire paragraphs filled already.

_Oh, I'm gonna have fun with this._

"Allergies?" Strange asked.

Just from the way he talked, he could tell Strange had an ego that could rival his own. The nurses around him shifted uncomfortably, eyes twitching from the Joker to the heavy metal doors. Turning his head, he _swore_ he could see scratch marks on the glass.

 _Well, you_ are _stuck with a bunch of crazies._

"Ah, I'm allergic to morons. Can't you see the bad case of hives? _"_

The Joker didn't even get a reaction out of that one. Not even a chuckle.

_I thought it was pretty good. Bunch of stiffs who can't take a joke._

"Wonderful."

The words sounded chipper enough, but Strange's smile was gone. Dropping his chin down, the reflection finally left his glasses. The Joker could see his eyes. And he didn't like what they told him.

Two orderlies stepped forward and the shy nurse followed behind, holding a needle.

A cocktail of opioids may have been pumped in his veins back at the hospital, his body sore and for the most part immovable, but the Joker did _not_ like needles. The pain or the look of them didn't bother him, but it was the fact that they always took something of his away. Needles like that stole from him back at the hospital, but he was out for that. He'd already added those doctors' names to his list.

But he was awake now.

Most of the Joker's gifts were things people didn't realize they wanted—a yearned for object. This was different. He'd never give something like that away willingly to just any local idiot. Especially something so _personal_. It was useless, he knew it was, but he thrashed around, attempting to free his arms.

The nurses had done their job too well. The thick canvas was smothering and the leather straps digging into his battered skin.

"Usually, you _ask_ about these things, doll," he said to nurse What's-Her-Face after the initial thrashing dissuaded no one; the nurse was still advancing. He was being reasonable first— _I can be good at that_. He smiled, but it quickly turned into a baring of teeth as she drew closer. "Touch me with that thing and, ah, you _won't_ like what I'll do."

Strong arms held him down as he tried in vain to gain control of his body. The nurse looked from Strange to the Joker. All the doctor did was stare and she bowed her head in obedience. Swallowing hard— _I'll make her swallow that goddamn needle—_ she stepped forward. One arm released from the jacket and forced straight, the orderlies bent his arm too much and the joints wrenched in a distinctly _uncomfortable_ way.

"Don't _touch me_ with that!"

He hadn't meant to freak out so soon, but the needle jabbed in his arm and the Joker lost it. Twisting like an eel, his teeth snapped together—missing an orderly's ear by an inch as they struggled to keep him still—making them _click_ as his jaw shut.

_One vial gone._

The Joker struggled and snarled, nipping and slavering, aiming for flesh and biting his own tongue instead.

_Two vials gone._

Whimpers from the nurse and grunts from the men. Strange stood by, his eyes taking in the writhing mess as he would any sight of a frenzied animal in the wild. Because, to him, that's what the Joker was.

A wild beast.

One he'd try his best to tame.

The Joker wanted to gouge out his eyes with a broken lightbulb.

_Three vials gone._

Call him old fashioned, but the Joker had ideas about blood. It was _personal._ A gift. One he gave to few. Batman was one of those. He could draw it out of the Joker any which way he wanted, and the Joker would give it on the altar of corruption dedicated to Batman's _valiant_ endeavors. Even Miriam—he'd already given her some. The Joker had hers and she'd taken his in kind. A blood pact.

This was different. This was _robbery._

And the Joker didn't take kindly to thieves.

Stitches reopened and too frenzied to notice the blood pressure cuff on his bicep, the Joker looked for a target. Anyone to focus his rage on.

He found Strange's smug grin.

 _I'll peel it off his_ fucking _patchy-bearded face._

Exhaustion and panting stole the air from him, but the Joker growled and muttered. Strange seemed to understand what he was getting at, tilting his head in sympathy and understanding.

"Now, what would I be if I didn't make sure all my patients were in good health?"

His body was tired— _fucking_ useless _when you need it—_ which made it easy for the orderlies to return his arm to the locked position across his chest.

"Just came from a hospital, didn't I?" the Joker bit between breaths, grinding his teeth together.

He was annoyed. No, beyond that—he was _angry_. Growing cagey. Crowded—realizing that they added three more orderlies—tired, and only just noticing the metal tray with more needles splayed out.

Thrashing again, Strange's expression took on a sadistic gleam.

"Rest is an important part of healing, patient 0801. This will relax you. We do not want you to hurt yourself for the rest of processing."

He was holding a syringe, flicking it while he held the needle aloft to the light.

"P-Processing?" The Joker cringed and growled again when his voice came out in a squeak. He'd make Strange pay for that, too. Make him suffer a thousand indignities before the Joker allowed him to die.

"Yes, 0801. _Processing."_

Faster than the Joker thought the small man could move, the needle was in his neck and the plunger pushed down. Something cold spread through his muscles, pushing on his chest until it was like he couldn't breathe. From the cold came burning. His limbs spasmed before seizing, the lights taking on a halo that seared his retinas.

As he choked on his own spit, Strange looked at him with an appreciative fondness, eyes flicking down to the scars that split the Joker's mouth. Tsking, he pushed his glasses further up his nose, hiding his slanted eyes behind the white glare again. To the Joker, it looked like they were glowing.

"I'm afraid I will not be your resident psychiatrist, but you'll be meeting with our best soon enough. Determining competency to stand trial will be our first order of business."

The Joker's gurney began to move, and he could barely take in his changing surroundings as he snarled again. That became hard when the burning melted the tension he held until it was like he had no body at all.

"Until then, do try to relax. Enjoy your stay and heal," Strange said, putting the clipboard under an arm and pulling on a pair of thick black gloves, adding, "If you can."

Innocent enough words, but the doctor looked positively _diabolical._ And, in the Joker's mind, only one of them got to hold that spot.

_And it ain't a tiny rat in a white coat._

If it didn't feel like his jaw was wired shut, the Joker would've called him a _cunt_. But, as it stood, he had more pressing worries and settled for muffled growls of promised retaliation.

Panic was a feeling he became reacquainted with recently— _thanks for that, Miri—_ and it made a comeback. The Joker couldn't move, and they were taking him further into the asylum. The orderlies muttered amongst themselves. Talking. About him.

_Always a dangerous hobby._

One that had him frothing at the mouth.

" _Freak."_ Bulging cheeks. Almost-unibrow. Pasty skin. Short.

The Joker dedicated all the details to memory even as the boundaries of reality began to slip. It'd been a long time since that happened. The drug; it was making him weak. Blending moments of the past with the present.

Beady eyes stared at the scars and bruises, just like Strange had. He fought the urge to hide his face. Ochlophobia was a menace from the _before_ —one he overcame in madness—but it came back with unrelenting force. He didn't want to be stared at. He wanted to hide again.

Gnashing his teeth so hard he thought he might snap his molars, the Joker forced his neck forward, peeking at the nametag hanging from the point-Dexter's pocket.

_Ronald McCreary._

He added it to the list. It'd be long by the time his short stay was out, but _boy—_ he'd make sure to pay them an _extra_ special visit. He was good at those.

"Strange wants the full treatment?" another asked. Gaunt. Tall and black. Poorly shaved beard. Mole by his left nostril.

 _They're talking like I'm not even_ here. _Bastards._

He would've _gutted_ the slags who thought of talking about him that way just a week ago. He'd been patient enough for what he gave Zsasz, but he was in no place for the same restraint. He wanted the slick red of a meat-sack's lifeblood coating his fingers. He wanted to _bathe_ in it.

But he couldn't do that. So, he arched his back and roared.

The orderlies looked him once and then went back to their forward progress. They weren't afraid of him. Not when he was there surrounded by guards who'd try their _very best_ to rival Batman in the beatings they'd give.

"Yeah. No slacking this time. Boss said to be thorough." This one had an accent. One the Joker could distinguish. _British._ Average height. Overweight. Weak chin.

"This piece of shit should be dead," Pasty said.

_Add another mark on the list. He'll be begging to die by the time I'm finished._

"Week's not done yet," Mole-man said.

The Joker was wheeled down hallways, pushed through swinging doors, run through several checkpoints, until they came to Wing D. Everything he needed to know was written on the thick, barred glass.

_**HIGH-RISK WARD. SECURITY PROTOCOL SEVEN ENFORCED AT ALL TIMES**_

If the Joker could do it with his twisted-up arms and cramping spine— _and without all the meds pumpin' in me—_ then he would've cracked his neck. The sign in and of itself was a challenge. One he'd be happy to meet.

_Gotta stay entertained somehow._

But that would come later. Sleep was never something the Joker ever craved before, and it snuck up on him and drained away the energy he always relied on. He felt weak but unable to summon the mental fortitude to fight it.

What came next was a blur. He only knew what it felt like. He couldn't trust his eyes. Not anymore. He was pretty sure he was hallucinating.

_Haven't had that happen in a while._

The Joker was in a bathroom. A big one. Several stalls and open showers. No longer in the canvas gimp suit, the Joker somehow found himself standing up, holding onto something metal and cold. Then the hosing down began. So hot it burned cold. Like frostbite.

He didn't remember falling, but he must have. The meds were doing their god-given work; he could've sworn Miriam was standing over him. Scowling. He could almost feel her hair tickling his nose, framing her face so there was nothing else but her and him. She made no sound, just giving that glare he'd come to _almost_ love. He grinned and got a forceful jet of water up his nose for it.

No pain came from his skull as he landed on the tile, but the hosing didn't stop. Aiming at his face, it took off the makeup the nurses at the hospital missed. No one there wanted to get close to him after he'd taken a mouthful out of a sweet ginger. But the asylum orderlies had no qualms about peeling it off— _along with three goddamn layers of skin—_ with what felt like a pressure washer.

It wasn't until he was propped up somewhere that the Joker realized he wasn't in the showers anymore. But something else was different.

His clothes were still gone. Naked. Every scar and tattoo on his body exposed. And there were a lot of them.

A nurse returned with the orderlies. Her sharp inhale of shock was enough to make the Joker smile again. So was the hand that clapped over her mouth.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer, lechers," he said in a much more light-hearted tone than he felt.

To his dismay, an actual camera _was_ raised. No one looked happy. All were grimacing. He hissed and turned away as they documented every bite mark, old gunshot and stab wound, thick to fine lines where knives slashed across his skin, the half-burned off tattoos and small blotches of ink from another lifetime ago—none of it was missed. And the Joker was splayed out like a ragdoll, unable to move enough to smash the camera on the ground.

Miriam appeared again. Standing in a far corner, wearing that dress he liked so much. It was easy to pretend she was real as they plunged another needle in, his stomach roiling as he couldn't even close his mouth to keep the drool in, and they poked at his teeth. Made comments about getting them checked by a dentist. He couldn't even bite their meaty fingers off.

The world twisted again, and he was emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor. He couldn't even make a joke about it. There was just heat— _too much heat_ —and then fevered shivering. Medication never agreed with him. _Ever._ It made him sick and worse. Always worse. He could acclimate, but it was hard. It took that extra bit of effort and months to accumulate.

He was on his side. Wrapped in a blanket that was too tight.

_Swaddled._

That's what it was. Another restriction of movement. But the lights were out, and he was in the dark. Miriam left him. No other visitors lurked in the corners. When he raised his head, a silhouette stood in the doorway. Big and tall. Broad. Pointy ears. His spirits lifted.

"Came to see me after all, Bats?" he asked, giggling madly.

"Conform and comply." The silhouette changed. It was a smaller man. Not his friend, no. This was Strange. "Then you shall be cleansed of your impurities."

The Joker's brows furrowed together. He couldn't even think of a joke. The strength in his neck gave out and his eyes were rolling toward the back of his head. His thoughts were still in order, but they were fading.

_Welp. That sounds… "Fun" is the first thing that comes to mind, but now I'm starting to think I'm the sanest one here._

And, for once, the Joker might not have been entirely wrong about that.


	2. Conform and Comply

_"Why do you look like that? It… looks like it hurts. Are you OK?"_

Licking his scarred lips, missing the tell-tale traces of greasepaint on his tongue, the Joker giggled in the dark. They'd left him for so long he was starting to lose it. Hearing voices wasn't _entirely_ new, but this one was different; it belonged to someone who was still alive, not the ghosts who haunted him.

It was Miriam's.

_"What are you afraid of, J?"_

A growl escaped his mouth. He was angry. The Joker kept thinking about her while he was trapped in the room— _to be fair, there's nothing else to think about_ —and he wasn't even sure _why_. Why he kept seeing her, why their conversations on the USS _Sink-a-Roony_ kept playing on repeat.

He had enjoyed his time with his sweet peach, but he was also furious with her. It was a dangerous mix, his memories; blending hate so hot with something gentler and sweeter with the fluctuations of his moods. He'd remember the boat and then he'd remember the betrayal. How she _ruined_ everything. How he couldn't kill her after all. They fused in his mind sometimes, creating a mix of unwanted pain and need for desperate relief, choking him like the meds _,_ making him dull. Blunted. He didn't like that feeling, like they took away the only knife he had left.

They—the doctors—put him in an isolation cell again. It was the third time in as many months. The first offense had been for lipping off to a guard—earning a sucker punch to the face and twenty-four hours with no other human contact _—I had the roaches, so joke's on them—_ and only bread and water to keep him going. Not that he'd needed the energy, being trapped in a box small enough that he hadn't even been able to lay down with his legs straight. The second time had been for what they called _"bad behaviour"_ in the common room.

 _Y'see, it all started when I saw someone_ real _special._

"Perfect. Just perfect," the despondent patient sitting next to the Joker had grumbled _._

The Joker had responded with gleeful cackling. "Well, _looky_ here. The _doctor_ becomes the _patient_. Think they've made a movie about that? They should. Bet it'd be a _banger_." The man next to the Joker had cringed and inched away, hiking up his plastic glasses further up his nose.

That man was Dr Jonathan Crane.

_Or the Straw Man missing a brain._

"You would be wise to observe the rules of the ward," Crane had said, shoulders crawling up to his ears. It had been impossible not to recognize him. His face had been plastered all over the place and his name carved in the permanent echelons of Gotham notoriety after the stunts he pulled the year previously.

The Joker was looking to usurp that position _—of course—_ but he had expected more from Jonathan, really. A _lot_ more. This man was a scrawny nerd. Gaunt and pale, black hair grown out too long and his eyes a watery blue. White jumpsuit making him look like as pale as a marshmallow, he had reminded the Joker of a slightly better-looking version of Gollum.

Throwing an arm around the quaking man, the Joker had to keep an eye out for guards _—wouldn't do to be interrupted—_ as he leaned in, eyes scouring the open space of the sparsely-populated recreation room. Crane was referring to the _'no touching'_ rule, but the Joker didn't have those beaten into him yet. It'd only been three weeks and they already let him have playtime.

_Never a wise decision._

As soon as his shackles were removed and the guards, giving him the stink-eye, retreated to their posts, the Joker had beelined for Crane mostly to watch him panic. Or break his arm. The Joker had been undecided.

"Yeah, like you've been a guy to follow _rules,"_ the Joker had said, rolling his eyes and giving Crane another squeeze. He smirked when the doctor twitched so hard it was like he was about to shoot off the threadbare couch and right into the tiled ceiling. Looking over at a small grouping of tables, he saw the other patients holding decks of cards and sitting next to stacks of board games. Inspiration broke through the lackluster haze that clouded his mind. "Hey, I've got an idea, Johnny."

"You _do not_ have permission to call me—"

"Whaddya say we play a game, hmm?" the Joker had asked.

Crane had given the Joker his best look of stupefied disdain, mouth agape like he had just been asked to pull down his pants for a special presentation of show and tell.

"No, thank you," Crane had said finally with a forced air of politeness. His head had been twitching, and so were his fingers. The Joker terrified him, but he hid it poorly under cool impartiality. "I'm sure there are other patients who are more suited to your…" He had looked the Joker up and down, an eyebrow popping up over the ridge of his glasses, a condescending smile stretching the fat lips. The Joker thought about splitting them open and watching the blood and drool pool onto his bleached white jumpsuit. "… Level of amusement and intelligence."

Then it had been the Joker's turn to twitch. Narrowing his eyes, the Joker had twisted his head to the side, considering.

"Oh, then _you'll_ do just fine."

Despite the medicine clouding his strength and his mind, the Joker was still stronger than Crane, and he'd dragged him up from the couch and over to one of the tables. Shoving Crane into an empty chair at a table with three other patients in various states of slavering stupidity, the Joker had picked up a deck of Uno cards and began to shuffle. Crane had looked at him with a growing sense of annoyance and fear, making the Joker smile _._

"Who's ready for some _fun?"_

The game had really been going fine. _Just fine._ Joker was winning _—just like always—_ and they were all getting along swimmingly until Crane _—sore loser if I ever saw one—_ had grown frustrated with being in the presence of the Joker and flat-out accused him of cheating.

_The nerve._

The Joker had responded by saying—quite calmly _—"Rude"_ before slamming Crane's head into the table for the insult.

_Well, he was right. Still, crack one egg a little hard and you'd think it was the end of the world. Jeez._

Before the Joker could get a second smack in or tear off Crane's glasses and shove it where the sun don't shine, the TYGER guards were on him and trying their very best to make the Joker swallow his teeth.

_Almost worked._

He'd been laughing the whole time, and that seemed to up the ante. The guards had wanted to keep going until he cried, but the Joker wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

_Not in this lifetime._

But the joke was worth it, and so the Joker had taken his beating like a good boy and waited for the bones to set and begin to heal in his three days alone. They had him tied to the bed most of the time. Chained up like an animal.

_Kinky._

His legs were cramped and twisted, back aching from lying in the same position for hours at a time, head swimming with the drugs they forced him to swallow, circulating in his veins.

And, in spite of the very _personal_ , hands-on attention he received, the Joker still hadn't learned his lesson.

_What's the point if you make it easy?_

It had been a source of sick amusement at first, languishing in Arkham. Another reason to hate the world and the people in it. But it had sure grown old quick. They had cut off the Joker's playtime, not trusted to be in the playroom with the other children unless he had his own escort guards on him, breathing down his neck. It wasn't an effort that they went to often. He was lucky if he saw daylight once a week _._

The Joker wanted out, but he needed to test the responses at Arkham. Find their strengths and home in on their weaknesses.

So, he did what he knew best.

The third offense for getting stuck in the shoebox was what had really landed him in hot water. Within the first week, they'd finished "processing" him and assigned him a doctor. Strange was the head of psychiatry, and within weeks of Mayor dearest Garcia resigning _—also rude, think he woulda sent a postcard—_ he was running the entire asylum. After their fourth session, the Joker was reassigned _—coward, talk about the proper ways to skin a cat and you'd think he'd never seen a horror movie before—_ and the second doctor had proved more tenacious.

_Real keener._

Dr _Theo_ Grant _._

Fat, sweaty, red hair to match the blotchy cheeks, pudgy fingers and muddy eyes. The Joker was never one to fault a person for their looks— _at least I've got a winning smile to make up for the rest—_ but with Theo, it had served to make him livid. He couldn't say why, really. Just that looking at him had brought visions of murder.

_Made the sessions real interesting._

The doctor had asked questions about the past that really didn't matter. Prying where he should've kept his mouth shut. Making assumptions that grated against the Joker's bones. He tolerated the first session, swinging some story about abuse that would make a Catholic priest on confession duty curl his toes. The doctor lapped it up _—of course he did, everyone's looking for a sob story—_ and was too stupid to question what he'd heard.

After a couple of sessions, the doctor had finally caught on and lost his patience. The Joker's answers changed every day, growing more outlandish and dramatic, but his level of cooperation had been unpredictable and often took a turn for the disturbing.

_Putting it mildly._

There was a lot to get used to at Arkham _—difficult to navigate when they're selling something archaic with a progressive wrapping—_ and Joker could be a slow learner.

_Hey, speak for yourself, pal._

He had people to figure out, and the Joker had Dr. Theo Grant pegged the moment he'd stepped in the counselling _—I think you mean 'interrogation'—_ room. Too focused on their labels and eliciting some sort of response they could recognize; these people were no fun. Boring. And that was a crime the Joker felt needed punishing. He didn't need any other reason than that, although he had plenty.

_I've always got a rhyme and reason._

_Always._

"You feel no remorse for your actions?" Doctor Theo had asked him towards the end. By that point, the Joker had already forgotten what had been asked previously.

 _Blame the crazy pills. Makes me_ dull _, remember?_

"For, ah, wha _-t?"_

The Joker liked hearing the repetitions of his 'crimes.' The rollcall meant to shame him but fostered the opposite. It was a highlight of each session: playing dumb and them hurling accusations at him like they should mean something.

"Kidnapping, torture, extortion, criminal hacking of protected computers, illegal infiltration of government databases with the intentions of causing harm, malicious mischief, _murder,_ attempted murder, _terrorism—_ the list's as long as my arm." Theo had been operating under the impression that his list of words meant something to the Joker. They didn't. "Don't you feel anything at all? One iota of guilt?"

"The only thing I regret is that I, ah, didn't get to do _more_." The Joker smiled and dear Theo looked aghast. "Alleged _-ly."_

Theo had been on the verge of losing it. Drawing up his files and pushing his glasses back, the doctor had gone on the offensive. He had wanted the Joker to crack, to spill his secrets, to give a reason they could understand. But they didn't get it. Never did.

_Reason is whatever you want it to be._

"Why go to all this trouble then? To feed your delusions of grandeur—put yourself in the spotlight and go down in infamy?" Theo had asked.

"Uh _, sure._ Why not." It hadn't been a real answer. The Joker had licked the corners of his mouth and popped his lips. It did the trick—Theo had begun to lose it.

"You're a psychopath. Textbook definition of antisocial personality disorder. You lack empathy or the ability to see anyone as a breathing human being. At, what, nearly thirty years old you suddenly snap one day and decide you want the world to pay for something you're overcompensating for? Is it because someone took a knife to your face, or did you do it yourself to get an edge on the competition you deluded yourself into seeing?—"

"You forgot _narcissist_ in there, too. Don't wanna miss that."

The look of rage had been all the Joker needed to sit back and grin like Cheshire cat.

Theo had kept going on like that. Droning on with his theories about how the Joker came to be. What made him tick. The Joker had sat there in silence, his mood darkening. He hadn't done anything overtly violent up until that point. He'd kept himself contained, damming up the brutal urges until they could be useful. It still manifested in twitches, drumming fingers, and bouncing knees. No amount of medication took that away. It never had, no matter how much he tried. That dam had begun to burst, and the Joker didn't see any reason to hold back.

"Does it make you feel smart to throw some well-deduced rationale in the mix, Theo? Think you've got me all… _figured out?"_ the Joker had asked. Theo had finally stopped talking long enough to listen, mouth gone slack. "I think you're just a rat in a suit. And I'll prove it to ya. We're all the _same,_ deep down. _Bleed_ the same colour and, ah, make the same sounds when we _scream."_

Theo's eyes had widened in terror, sensing the danger and malice coming from the Joker. And, once Theo's head was turned to call the guards to drag the Joker away, he sprung at the doctor. His hands were cuffed to the table, but his legs weren't. He cleared the table and had Theo pinned long enough to flip around and take a good chunk out of his neck.

_Likely needs a tetanus shot, poor boy._

The Joker clicked his teeth together at the memory, rolled his neck as he winced in pain.

Several cracks of the baton, a few broken ribs _—possibly my jaw, don't forget about that—_ bruised internal organs, several gashes that required medical attention and received none, and a few large globs of spit in his hair later, the Joker was back in the isolation room again. But, this time, they had given no deadline about when they'd collect him.

_Probably for the best._

That's where he found himself that Monday morning. At least, he thought it was Monday; there were no windows in the room and no clock to consult. He'd long lost track of the hours. At one point there had been low lighting around the bottom edge of the room, but they'd flicked it off this time around. An extra layer of punishment. He could only stare up in the dark, unable to distinguish between waking and dreaming.

The Joker liked to think he had a resilient mind, but—in truth—it ate itself just like anyone else's would. The whispers he'd started hearing upon starting the medication were full-blown conversations turned screaming matches when he tried to sleep. The Joker was anti-social by nature— _always have been—_ but his thoughts were loud— _too loud—_ and they were _deafening._

Hemorrhaging visions of things that were and weren't his life simultaneously blinded him, creating a technicolour slap to the face that only manifested because it existed in the darkness. He was beginning to lose his grip on himself. He knew he was. It wasn't something that was unfamiliar. No, he'd felt it before—that slipping over the edge, always creeping in the dark. But he'd already fallen once, how much further was there to go until he hit the bottom?

_Miri said she was afraid of the dark. Maybe she's right to be._

Imagining what his Bat was doing on the outside helped. Thinking about how Batman's fists felt when they hit him. That's what he did when the guards had a hold of him—dreamed it was his Bat instead. He latched onto the memories of the last four months. Dwelled on imagining how his darling sweet peach was coping without him. He reached for a chain around his neck that hadn't been there for weeks. The one confiscated and returned to its proper owner. The Joker hoped not; he wanted to be the one to give it back to Miriam.

_Well, kinda._

Granted, it would've been just as he watched the light leave her eyes, but he tried to shut those specific thoughts off quickly. It was bad enough that her voice was haunting him, he didn't need to keep seeing her either. Not when he was still so angry.

_'That way madness lies,' as they say._

But it was too late for that.

The Joker, upon being arrested after Bats had dragged him out of the burning Research and Development department, honestly thought he'd be able to break out sooner. Give Gotham a small hiatus before tearing into her again and give Miriam a good taste of her own medicine. He wrongly assumed that Miriam would stay in Gotham, but he managed to catch wind that she'd left almost immediately after he'd been admitted to Arkham from a couple of gaggling guards. That killed his more immediate schemes. More thinking would need to be done as to lure her back so he could find a new way to skin a Mir- _cat._

He also thought that Arkham would be like the more modern mental institutions. Ones he had been familiar with, the places that had sensitive doctors willing to give the benefit of the doubt at the first sign of good behaviour.

But this place was more like a prison.

_Need to be a bit wilier for that._

He groaned and pressed on the aching bruises and chipped bones littering his face. Feeling something was better than an existence of nothing, save for the screams in his head no one else would ever hear.

_See? Wasn't lying to Theo._

The guards wouldn't answer his screamed insults, and so the Joker could only wrestle with his own thoughts, stick with his vivid imagination and attempt to wrangle everything else inside.

"So much for some R-and-R, huh?" he said aloud. There was no one to hear him except for perhaps a camera or two. The Joker couldn't keep it all inside anymore. He needed to talk with someone else, even if it was just him.

They had called him crazy for years. Dismissed him. He was the freak, and he'd tend to agree.

"Still stole their kneecaps for saying it out loud."

That was the thing: Joker could speak the truth but no one else could because they didn't really get it. _Reality_. The world. He did, of course.

" _Not_ crazy," he murmured, hands splayed out in front of his face like he could see the spaces between his fingers. He couldn't, but he pretended otherwise. "You _'re not."_

Never once did the Joker ever think he was crazy. Never. Mad— _most certainly—_ but that was different. Madness isn't about brain chemistry _._

_"No, no, no."_

Madness, at its core, was about rejecting the mundane. The normal. Pointing out its flaws and laughing at them. Saying _"no more."_ Sure, the Joker was madness taken to an extreme, but he went beyond rejecting conventional reality, he directly _—and actively—_ opposed it. Why embrace a world that was shoving him out the door? Being spit out and stomped on was an expected part of life. Fighting back, now that was when the world started paying attention. When it directed its focus, finding a way to knock you back down, that's when the world went insane _._

_But insanity's a funny concept._

"It's _loud,_ for one thing."

Yes, it was loud. Chaotic. Brimming with life and caught in a cycle of cannibalistic self-consumption.

Treating madness was like trying to find a cure for the pollution called _'Humanity.'_ There simply _wasn't_ one. It was a permanent state with varying degrees of severity. But once the slip was made, there was no reset. No do-over. No going back.

And the Joker didn't want to.

The doctors did though. They still suffered from the delusion that talking things out could bring about change. Expose a flaw they could twist. Bring on some self-reflection that ended with revelations.

"Fops like that won't ever understand."

No, they wouldn't. And, just like insanity was loud, it was also lonely. A solitary endeavor. One the Joker often preferred to travel, but found, only recently, that he didn't always want to navigate it alone. He'd found friends.

"Generous term."

Perhaps not friends, exactly, but those who could understand his frequency. The way he ticked.

_"You… you're a good friend. I—I like talking to you."_

He groaned and ripped at his hair. He couldn't shake her voice no matter how hard he tried. Conflicted feelings still surrounded Miriam, and he wasn't sure if he should accept the voice as company or reject it altogether. He cherished those memories with her. But he resented them, too.

The Joker didn't want to admit it to himself, but Miri had more pull on him than he wanted to acknowledge. And it made him furious. He wanted all of it— _her_. He wanted it so much it made him want to destroy it, too. It couldn't be used against him if it didn't exist. But, more importantly, it couldn't be torn away.

It was a growing problem for him, one that he would need to deal with eventually. But it was one he could think about decidedly later.

People were funny _—myself included._ For a long time, he thought he couldn't understand them any more than he could understand himself. They were illogical, painstakingly part of something that never served a purpose. Salvaged and fostered human bonds that benefitted them as long as they ticked off special boxes that changed on a whim. Eventually, the Joker came to a realization. It wasn't that he didn't understand people—

"It's that I don't like 'em."

Misanthropy. A familiar state of disdain. He embraced it more than ever before. And yet he still liked his Batman and his Miriam, wishing them both immortal and at the mercy of his knife.

_Fancy the odds of that._

"You don't like what?" a voice asked.

The Joker bolted upright. There were two doors keeping him in: one needed to open to let the light through the barred window and shove food trays through the slat. The Joker was in the _'high-risk'_ ward, he didn't get the luxury of any ol' cell. No, he was trapped in a concrete box. He must've closed his eyes at one point because there was light framing some dipshit's head in a halo.

"Are you… OK in there?" the voice asked again.

The Joker's eyes danced around the room, head cocking back. "Uh, that supposed to be rhetorical?" he asked.

"Oh. Well, _no?"_

After not hearing a voice—a _real_ one for god-knows how long, the Joker found just about everything hilarious. He chuckled, coughed his voice box back to life, and then genuinely laughed. The kid sounded just that—a _kid._ Young, likely. Probably stupid.

"Huh. Whaddya know," he said, swinging his legs over the small bed and stalking towards the door.

He didn't know how long it'd been since he showered. His hair, now shorter and dirty blond after they forcibly sheered it, was matted to his head. Knowing he likely looked like a wide-eyed lunatic, the Joker's eyes dilated as he tried to see past the now blinding light to make out the guard's face.

"Is my, ah, _time out_ over now _, sir?"_ he asked.

The guard pulled back, stammered half-words stuck in his mouth. He might not be able to see it, but the Joker could tell the kid was wringing his hands.

"No, I—I don't think so."

The Joker's eyes adjusted, and he took in the kid in front of him. He was young, Asian, dark brown hair and spots of acne along his jaw. Too young for a TYGER guard. He was too inexperienced, nervous. He didn't carry himself like a soldier as the others did. But the Joker—as much hatred he had for the common people, was also lonely. He needed something else to fill in the shouts and whispers hammering in his ears.

"Why're you here then? Come to taunt the, uh, _psycho_ clown?" he asked.

The protests were quick and enthusiastic. "N-No! No, I, erm… you were…" More hand wringing, backing further away from the cell. The Joker felt something close to desperation for the first time in years. "You were… talking to yourself. Making… sounds. Just wanted to, umm—"

"Ain't that against _protocol?"_ the Joker interrupted, narrowing his eyes and biting down on his bottom lip. "You're not with security." It wasn't a question. The kid got off on the wrong foot, he wasn't the one in charge.

_I am._

The kid didn't answer, so the Joker took it as an invitation to keep going.

"Look, you don't need to be afraid, hmm? Got me chocked full of enough crazy pills to tranq a horse and some thick steel between us. Just, ah… makin' _friendly_ conversation. No harm in that, is there?"

There was plenty harm in it. There was a reason the Joker was isolated. Unlike Batman and the GCPD, Arkham Asylum two-point- _oh_ was more wary. Smarter.

_The one place that does something right._

"I—I'm just an intern. A-An assistant," he spat out, voice breaking. The kid seemed incapable of conjuring any other stuttered admissions and the Joker resisted the urge to mock him.

"Why come all the way down here then, hmm?" the Joker asked.

"Charts. M-Medical charts. Just… I was checking them for Dr Strange."

The Joker resisted the urge to snarl at the name, keeping his voice light and friendly. _"Huh._ No need to be _nervous,_ kid. I'm sure, ah, the good doctor knows what he's doing."

_Feeding the kid to the sharks._

"What's your name?" the Joker asked.

"Eugene," came the automatic reply. The kid slapped a hand over his mouth like he forgot he wasn't supposed to give personal information to psychopaths willing to hold onto a grudge.

_Seems I found a weak link after all._

"Friend- _ly_ piece of advice, Eugene," the Joker cracked his neck and sighed, tongue probing his lips, "careful who ya talk to; this place is full of _crazies."_

The Joker suppressed a guffaw and it came out as a snicker instead. He stood closer in the light and the kid wouldn't stop staring, taking in the Joker's ruined appearance. He might've been considered a good-looking man, once. A charmer. The Glasgow smile and eyes of the devil tended to _pop_ that illusion quick.

"R-Right," the kid said, nervous. He looked down the hall, seeing something that reminded him of where he needed to be. "Well, i-if you're alright, I have to go."

The kid pulled the door back, shutting the flap that allowed the light in and bolting the door in place.

 _"Hey—wait!_ How much longer am I gonna be stuffed in here?" he called out after the kid, but it was too late; the Joker received no response, left alone again with his ghosts.

He pounded his fist against the wall again and again in frustration, splitting his knuckles open and unable to even relish the sight of the blood in the familiar ocean of black. Bringing his fist to his mouth and licking at the warm streams that trickled down his wrist, the Joker went back to the only means of occupying himself that he had—thinking.

He couldn't spend all his time in places like this. There would be no escaping from isolation cells. Learning how to play nice became a pressing imperative. It meant taking a hit to any sense of dignity he had, stooping down to the place of any common idiot. The Joker needed to play the cooperative patient. Lower his threat level. Respond to treatment.

_I can do that._

It would be easy for the Joker because he already had one advantage: He had no sense of pride.

But he did have a sick sense of vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up in a couple of days - I'm moving through this series quickly with the hopes of starting the next continuation just after the first week of August. I'd like to give another shout-out to Boag for reading this over and her suggestions! And, as always, thanks for reading and let me know what you think! :)


	3. Moments of Happenstance and Serendipity

The Joker was bored. _Way_ too bored. And that always signaled trouble for some poor sod. In this case, that poor idiot was going to be Christopher.

Food had always been a guaranteed big bad in Arkham. Like, _insanely_ bad.

_See what I did there?_

Where did all those standards of care go? Right into the trash along with the Joker's hopes of having a full stomach. It had been six months and there'd been no improvements. He'd even learned how to play _nice,_ earn some privileges around the place. But that didn't prohibit him from complaining. And that he did.

_A lot._

There were other things to distract him from the keen pangs for a slice of Vinny's pizza if he looked hard enough. Vinny's might've done delivery if Joker put in the right threats to the right morons, but that required actually _getting_ word out to said morons. Thinking about it, the Joker almost regretted killing the titular Vinny in retrospect.

_Almost._

He had a debate raging in his mind. Allowing the opportunity to be entertained to simply pass him by seemed like the _real_ crime. Dear Johnny had already developed a strong aversion to him, jumping and moving as far away as possible whenever the Joker was near. The guard's caught on to that game, too.

_Still got a few good squeals in._

The Joker giggled at the memory of Crane's stuttering, his protestations at the fun games he'd make up. Stealing Crane's glasses, sneaking up behind him and yanking on his ear, shouting surprise greetings, pulling out the chair from underneath him or plopping on Crane's lap and swinging his legs up like some loved-crazed teen in a poodle skirt. He'd gotten off on terrorizing Crane until the guards enforced a strict buffer between them of twenty feet.

_I am a "terrorist," ain't I?_

He was almost distracted from the potential fun in front of him with Big Chris, looking across the mess hall to find Crane sitting on his own, studiously eating his pseudo-food like he was at a four-star restaurant. The Joker gave a menacing smile and fluttered his fingers in a wave, tongue dragging across his bottom lip. Crane flushed red and went back to poking at his food, but the Joker knew—Crane was, deep down, just as unhappy with it as him.

_Guy needs to learn how to lighten up. It'll get that stick outta his ass._

His eye twitched. A nervous tick— _I think you mean "another" nervous tick—_ had developed from the amount of restraint he forced on himself. He'd never gone so long without doing _something._ His blood would sing when he thought about it, having to tear out his hair and be content with verbally abusing the cretins in his vicinity instead. The hallucinations grew stronger every week, but the fact that he _knew_ they were hallucinations had to mean something.

_Right?_

The Joker blamed the meds like he always did. It gave him a reason to _hate_ all the bastards more. His list grew longer, and his itch to hurt someone was near unbearable. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night with his fingers already wrapped around someone's— _mostly Miri's—_ throat just to realize it was his blanket.

 _Can you_ imagine _what a letdown that was?_

There were pros and cons to weigh for his present situation. A method to think _rationally_ about his desire to ruin Christopher's day.

But the Joker was already starting to slip.

He'd felt it. Going a little more comatose every day. Cutting down on what made him _him_ until he was just a jerky, twitching mess with a fucked-up face no one wanted to touch. Fine by him, but he had a trial date— _finally—_ coming up. His court-appointed lawyer hadn't been useful for much, other than putting the Joker in contact with someone else he could psychologically scar.

_Wonders of the American judicial system, hmm?_

The Joker didn't want them to rehash the past, and he didn't particularly care about the outcomes of his hearings. They'd already declared him a terrorist, reviled by the world at large, but the doctors were still deliberating as to whether he was truly not criminally responsible for his actions.

_Of course I am._

But they didn't _know_ that definitively. They were still trying to _figure_ him out. As much as the Joker didn't care, he also didn't want to be sent to Blackgate Prison. Breaking out of Crazy-Ville was one thing, but Blackgate was another matter. Required more organization. Connections.

And the Joker murdered most of those in his previous escapades.

_Mommy always said I needed to learn how to play well with others._

No, she hadn't—but the Joker didn't remember much for it to matter anyway. She _could_ have said it, and that's what was important—using probability to suss out vague details from a mass of misfiring nerves disguised as memories he'd rather discard altogether.

He sighed, thinking of the burns that long-since healed on his arms. How he got them at the arcade. How it felt to have his head crack against the funhouse mirror.

 _Still feels like it all happened last week._ She _makes sure of that._

Miriam. She was still haunting him.

_Bitch._

It's part of what kept him together— _a nice focal point for my_ rage—but it also made it harder to control himself.

He twitched hard enough to drop his utensils when Big Chris shoved another half-empty forkful of food into his mouth, eyes glazed over. Any thought of the before left with the reminder of the helpful distraction in front of him.

Big Chris was one of the only idiots stupid enough to sit with the Joker, a giant of a man _—hence the "big" in Big Chris_ —who never spoke _._ And he only did it on _accident._ Big Chris went to the table long out of habit and the Joker claimed it as his after he was finally allowed to eat with the others, waiting for the lumbering idiot to take a _goddamn_ hint and shove off.

He never did, and a few others would tentatively join—the curious or otherwise similarly unstable. Some would ask the Joker questions—morbid curiosity taking over, and some just wanted to sit close enough to stare. Get a close up with the newly crowned "Terror of Gotham."

_Not my personal favourite, if I'm being honest._

But with the way Big Chris was, it was too good to just _leave_ him alone without at least doing _something_.

_Fuckitfuckitfuckitfuckitfuckitfuckit—_

He could say he tried. He really could. The Joker _tried_ to be a good patient, lull them into that false sense of security. But—

_Fuck it._

—there was a game afoot, and the Joker knew how to set up a good punchline.

Big Chris was what the good doctors called " _checked out."_ Not in the sense that he got to leave, of course, but in a way where he wasn't very _aware_ of all the little happenings around him. So, Joker had a game. A good one, too.

_Got that right, kiddo._

The Joker started out small, just like he did before with Crane. Taking all the sugar packets and replacing the salt in their plastic containers with the sweet surprise. Big Chris didn't even _blink_. The big guy just sprinkled his mystery meat in the stuff, taking large chomps before chewing loudly, ending with the obligatory swallow. It repeated in a systematic pattern that was almost enviable for its dumb simplicity. The big bastard even sprinkled more on his parody of steamed carrots.

That was pretty annoying.

_Under-state-ment. Of. The. Year._

So, Joker decided to ramp things up. He was determined. He had to lay off Crane for a while until he could slide the knife under that particular nail, so Big Chris was going to give him a reaction by the end of the week. He'd make it happen.

_One way or another._

He replaced Big Chris' plastic fork with a broken spoon one day at lunch. Mixed coffee grinds with his glass of fluoride-ridden water. He even took away the guy's plate and Big Chris still stabbed the air and brought the empty utensil to his mouth—continuing on with the robotic motions until one of the drones took him back to his padded cell of a room. Joker could only watch on in stupefied amazement. He was pretty sure he just watched what most people spent their entire lives doing in their failing attempts at normalcy.

Maybe that's what he was doing. Enacting a small experiment for a larger metaphor. Maybe.

_Now you're getting philosophical on me._

Each escalation brought none of the reactions Joker wanted.

_Zero._

_Zilch._

_Nada._

He didn't like that. Big Chris was killing his vibe, taking away the anticipation of a much needed high to slog through another torturous week in the dead puppy mill that was Arkham.

The Joker was thinking hard. Always a dangerous endeavour.

Well, dangerous for everyone else.

_Yep yep yep._

The drones hadn't caught on to his little attempts at fun that time around. But some of the other inmates did, left with only their moaning and groaning and incomprehensible nonsense, watching him like he was _explosive_ and they were in danger of being caught in the blast radius. Joker didn't belong with them. A few of the sick ones— _the_ really _sick ones—_ laughed. Others were indifferent, not really comprehending what they were seeing. But most of the zombies—especially those who were dumb enough in the beginning to sit with him—looked scared.

_Good._

After he took a good chunk out of his doctor's neck and took to laughing during his regular beatings until he passed out, the Joker garnered himself a _specific_ reputation. He liked it that way. He _wanted_ them to be afraid, to tiptoe around him. But there were always idiots around who wanted to spoil the fun.

"Whaddya doing, J?" one of the said idiots, Simon, asked after the Joker snapped his plastic fork in half in frustration.

Simon was brain dead. A simple fool who sat with Joker, but not a fool who needed to be in the New-and-Improved Arkham. His worst fault was that he didn't seem to have a filter. The Joker liked that most days, but it was the endless questions that got him, so he answered with a growl.

"You look mad. Is it the meatloaf? I know you don't like that. Sorry. Hey, do you think they'll have the Uno cards out tonight so we can—"

"Shut. _Up,"_ Joker snarled, not looking at Simon. The idiot didn't even blink; a true manifestation of a golden retriever in the guise of a skinny-ass bag of bones and patchy brown hair. "No, it ain't the meatloaf," he said after he caught Simon looking downcast. Kicking Simon was like _actually_ kicking a dog.

_Call me what you want, but I like dogs better than people._

"Oh. Do you want your pudding? I always like pudding, you know I do, and—"

" _Simon_. Ah, tryin' to think, pal," the Joker interrupted in a sing-song voice.

Simon retreated in on himself, pulling his hands up to tug on his collar, inching towards pulling on his hair. "Sorry, sorry, J. Sorry," he said earnestly. He really was a dog. Stupid, but for some reason attached to the Joker. He didn't mind most days, but Big Chris had him distracted from the games he usually liked to play with Simon when he couldn't get Crane and was _vexed._

 _That's right, kids._ Vexed.

He ground his teeth together, bit the insides of his cheeks, wishing for the taste of something else in his mouth other than water with the tinge of metal and food with the consistency of used-up sandpaper. He pulled the top off his chocolate pudding cup, ignoring Simon's request entirely as he got lost in thought.

_Oh, how can I fuck with Big Chris today._

"They have more pudding in the kitchen. I know they do, J. Why don't they share? They should share," Simon said, getting his animation back at the prospect of eating something that _wasn't_ produced in Arkham. The Joker had an epiphany.

_Kitchens. Right._

The Joker looked up across the full tables— _Arkham's been looking a little_ full _recently_ —to the kitchen. A single orderly could be seen through the canteen window; two TYGER guards stood at the doors. It was the middle of dinner. More wouldn't come until they were ready to drag them all back to their cells.

The Joker was so elated he ended up giving Simon his pudding after all, his game with Big Chris forgotten. He had thinking to do. _Finally,_ something to keep the maddening visions away. He was faced with his first blessing in that rotten hellhole: A chance to get out.

The golden opportunity came in the form of an _accident_ two days later after Joker took his time set to thinking. Well, "accident" was a generous term for it.

_One man's accident is another man's kitchen-break._

Marky-Mark—a crazy bastard obsessed with speaking through chatterboxes— _somehow_ managed to embed a broken plastic knife in his thigh and was simply _gushing_ to tell the mess hall _all_ about it. Everyone's attention was right where the Joker wanted it to be—because he convinced Simon to do the stabbing.

 _Already learning_ so _much. Daddy's proud._

He thought the meatheads guarding the kitchen doors would know how to keep their eyes on the prize by now, what with all the criminally insane and otherwise _volatile_ guests that only got crazier for being in the special corner in hell called _Arkham._

_Apparently not. Losers._

Joker looked like he was dropping his tray off like the drugged-up _good_ boy they thought he was becoming—the crazy clown slowly being lobotomized one pill at a time. Nullifying him. Making him empty.

_Nope nope nope nope. Not gonna happen._

He played up the vacancy, staring into space like some common vegetable. Strange had even remarked on the Joker's passivity the week before, making comments about how he'd get to the point soon where the Joker was willing to spill his guts to them all. They'd get it on tape, show the world what _made_ one of the most dangerous men in Gotham's entire history.

The Joker wanted to prove them all wrong. But he had to be _smart._ No matter how slow the drugs they forced down his throat made him.

He stole into the kitchen, very much like a kid on Christmas morning, while the guards tried to subdue the waves of panic that rippled out amongst the patients, sounding close to a full-scale riot by that point, and saw on the counter what he was looking for.

A familiar feeling of warmth filled him as he looked at the sharpened blades. The cold steel of the knife's edge. New visions of red, plunging it into soft skin, seeing what internal organs he could find in one go, _feeling_ what it was like when it sliced through flesh—the Joker could've come right there if it wasn't for all the crazy pills _killing_ his libido.

_Prudes don't know how to have fun, do they?_

No matter. The Joker would still get his fun. Patience was the key.

He didn't take one of the big ones.

_That would be obvious._

And Joker didn't like the obvious.

Picking up one of the small paring knives, the Joker's smile grew—pulling the rippled pucker of his scars further up his cheeks.

Now the fun could _really_ begin.

* * *

"Why am I here? The last I checked, you weren't my regular doctor," Dr Jonathan Crane asked, taking off his glasses and scrutinizing the man in front of him like _he_ was the one running the session.

Technically, he wasn't a doctor anymore. The American Psychiatric Association made sure any of his credentials were promptly revoked upon his conviction. No matter; Jonathan didn't need that to fulfill his purposes anymore. There was no need to hide, but he pulled on the feelings of superiority garnered when he received that coveted piece of paper after years in school as he sat across from Dr Hugo Strange. The smug inferior who had effectively replaced him. Jonathan tried not to be bitter. It didn't work well.

"No, I am not," Strange began, his elbows on his large, cedar desk with a grin that looked more like a grimace. "I hope you will not object to speaking with me. There are many similarities between us, would you not agree? Except, of course, for the positions we find ourselves in now."

Jonathan barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I believe it depends on your definition of 'similar,'" he said. Jonathan refused to think of this man as his equal, someone who came _close_ to what he had accomplished. This was Jonathan's regular session time with Dr Jenkins, and he was surprised to have been taken to the Head of the Asylum's office instead. "If you have a point, it would be expedient to come to it, lest you continue to waste both our time."

Strange surprised Jonathan by laughing lowly, flashing straight rows of yellowing teeth. Everything about the man irked Jonathan. His accent, beard, even the carriage of his body, and the way he looked at Jonathan. He recognized it because he saw it himself when he looked in the mirror.

"Time? You speak as if yours is limited and not an endless stretch meant to last until your dying breath," Strange said, standing and circling around the desk.

Jonathan crossed his legs, looking much like he would have a year and a half ago when he was the one running the old Arkham institute. Stopping at the window, facing the large courtyard that sat inside the large circle of interconnecting buildings that comprised the new asylum, Strange stared out into the dying evening light.

"How have you found your treatment here, Jonathan? Is it everything you failed to enact during your tenure?" he asked.

Jonathan's face flushed red. "Oh, it's been _splendid._ Congratulations on your _successful_ endeavors. I can only admire your ability to agitate the patients in your care." He adjusted, clasping his hands together and facing the desk. It seemed like a purposeful insult to be sitting in that particular office—it was the same one he sat at in the years before, a near-identical replica. He refused to look at Strange. "Interesting how patients selected for your advanced treatment program come out decidedly more… _lobotomized_ than when they entered."

Strange swung away from the window, coming to stand at Jonathan's side. There was a stretch of silence, a nervous beat of Jonathan's heart as he thought of Strange potentially calling in the guards to see him beaten. He worried about that because he had done the same on more than one occasion in the years before. But Strange didn't do that. He stood and glowered down, making small chills raise the skin on Jonathan's back.

"Would you care to join me for a moment, Jonathan?" he asked.

Jonathan blinked; he expected a retort at the very least, perhaps a snide remark. It's what he would have done.

Saying nothing, he rose to his feet. Jonathan was a low-risk patient, too weak to offer much physical resistance. He liked to spend his time mentally plotting ways he could exact revenge, to finish what he started— _planned_ for so many years ago. But that required patience and waiting for an opportunity. He knew that well.

They walked through the large, carpeted office to a large bookcase at the end of the room. The shelves were filled with volumes ranging from _De Humani Corporis Fabrica_ to Rosenhan to textbooks and encyclopedias on chemistry and biology. It wasn't too far off from what Jonathan had owned and stocked his own bookcases with. The idea made him grind his teeth.

"Don't tell me you want to start a book club," Jonathan said after Strange continued to do nothing but stare at the shelves, his finger caressing the back of the books' spines. "Mildred already had that idea, I believe. They meet on Thursday evenings if you're truly interested—"

"Jonathan, surely you know the story of Amadeus Arkham?" Strange asked, pulling out a worn, leather journal with a strange symbol carved into it and holding it delicately in his hands. When Jonathan examined it more closely, a thrill went up his back, making him stand taller.

There was a strange beetle surrounded by circles of text he couldn't read on the cover, etched black into navy-dyed leather.

"The old asylum was his converted estate, it would make one obtuse to _not_ to know who he was," Jonathan said.

"Well, _are_ you obtuse?" Strange asked, a smile stretching his lips for the first time. Jonathan answered with a glare that Strange ignored, taking his place behind his desk once again. "Amadeus, the brilliant mind who ushered in the start of Gotham's salvation."

"He was also as insane as those he treated." Jonathan returned to his seat, his curiosity growing against his will. Strange had the journal open, carefully moving each page over as he read its spidery scrawls of black ink.

"Violence, especially as pronounced as what Amadeus endured, would affect any man. Finding his wife and daughter butchered—"

"He killed his mother before any of that. A distinct taste for bloodshed himself, what, with his murder of Martin Hawkins and several of his other patients." Jonathan didn't know where this was going, and he was divided as to whether he wanted to find out.

Strange nodded his head, conceding Jonathan's point. They were talking about a man who died in his own asylum, buried in the cemetery outside what had been part of his childhood home, euthanized his own mother, and a crusader in the movement to cure Gotham of those he deemed incurable. Amadeus' perceived madness wasn't Jonathan's chief concern, nor were the dead man's crimes, but he did care about the correlation between his situation and that of the past Strange evoked.

"Are you aware of the fact that Amadeus kept journals?" Strange asked, holding the book with the enigmatic symbols aloft and giving Jonathan a closer examination before returning to flipping through its pages. "Much of it _is_ the talk of a madman. Nonsensical drivel, to be certain." Strange looked over the edge of his glasses at Jonathan, his dark eyes boring into him.

There was something more Strange was playing at. Leaning forward and keeping his expression neutral, Jonathan inclined his head to show he was listening.

"September 13, 1920. 'A radical step must be taken to combat Gotham City's diseased,'" Strange read, his voice low and melodic, already turning to a new page further in the journal. "June 4, 1923. 'Gotham City is lost. The lunatics are irrepressible. Incurable. The only sensible treatment: _e_ _radication_.'" Putting the journal down, Strange raised one thick eyebrow.

Jonathan swallowed once before he found his voice. It wasn't because of nervousness; it was because of the potential for excitement. But that would fall into being hopeful—and Jonathan couldn't be that.

"The delusions of a man with a weak mind," Jonathan said, waving his hand to dismiss the journal as anything more than that.

"And yet _you_ did not espouse such a different ideology last year. Orchestrating a scheme so that millions may suffer in a perpetual nightmare they could never escape." Strange did not sound as if he were judging Jonathan, and he could almost hear an indication of begrudging respect. "You also see Gotham as a lost cause, filled with the incurable."

It wasn't a question, but rather a statement. One Jonathan agreed with. He'd long ago lost interest in the idea of finding cures for conditions that had none. Finding distinct pleasure in heightening those conditions instead, Jonathan dedicated his life's work to exploring the intricacies of the human mind—knowing its strengths and exposing its greatest weaknesses.

"Don't tell me you wish to compare me to Amadeus, Strange. We are nothing alike."

Jonathan was in denial; he saw plenty of himself in Amadeus. His mind was more or less recovered from being exposed to his own toxin, but it only heightened the fears he had lived with his whole life. They were not new, the hallucinations had long since reduced in their number, and Strange succeeded in whetting his appetite to try something new.

"Oh, I believe there are many parallels. Many… _opportunities_ to test the methods Amadeus failed to do himself."

"Opportunities?" Jonathan asked.

Hugo Strange smiled, but it only seemed to move the bottom half of his face, not reaching his eyes and giving him the appearance of a bearded ventriloquist doll.

"Yes, Jonathan. _Many._ If you are willing, of course."

There was an offer there—a chance to do what Jonathan enjoyed most. Conditions and a hefty price would surely accompany it, but, just like he had before, Jonathan knew how to bide his time. His professional and personal life were ruined, but he wasn't one to turn away from his calling.

"I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is the eleven year anniversary of _The Dark Knight_ coming out, so I thought it was fitting to have this come out to commemorate the film that quite literally changed my life. I hope you enjoy this and some of the trouble that's brewing, and I'll see y'all again soon. Be sure to let me know what you think! :)


	4. It's Not Even Breakfast

“J, J—what’re we doing? This another game? We playing a game? Please tell me—”

“Ah, _Simon._ Wanna _shut up_ for more than two seconds?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Simon said, pressing two hands over his mouth, eyes going wide as he looked around the rec room.

They were playing a game, but not one Simon was in on. With Joker’s newly acquired knife was strapped to his calfe, he waited. He was like a spider that way, sitting in the shadows, peering into the light, and waiting for some dumb sonofabitch to touch his web, trip the wire, say the wrong thing. He was getting close. He really was.

The Joker was going to break out of Arkham that morning.

_“Do or die,” as they say._

“Tell now?” Simon asked, his fingers moving just enough to let out the sound between tightly pressed lips.

The Joker flicked Simon’s head playfully. “ _No,”_ he said, pushing Simon on the nose so his face turned away. He was pliable like that, letting the Joker do whatever he wanted. Joker didn’t know how Simon did it, kept so much energy despite Simon’s medication being more potent than his. “Patience is a _virtue_.”

That was the cliché he’d been telling himself for months, and now he just needed it to pay off for forty-seven more minutes.

They had a routine for the Joker in Arkham. A set one, rigidly adhered to. Wake him up, force those pills down his throat, shower time, thirty minutes in the rec room, sub-par breakfast, morning therapy, yoga on Tuesdays if he was a _real_ good boy, mediocre lunch, _more_ medication, another thirty minutes in the rec room, afternoon time to question his will to live, sometimes a nap if he was feeling lively, mush in the guise of supper, and— _you guessed it—_ even _more_ medication to make sure he slept not long afterward.

It was a simple, rarely deviating from the formula. Routine was the crack his therapists liked to shove down his throat. Like it would give him comfort, something to rely on. _Consistency_ and _order_ in a chaotic world. 

_They’re missing the point again._

All routine did was make them easy to predict and therefore easy to plan around. He was going to be out soon. The Joker convinced himself of it. He _needed_ to be out.

The doctors thought he was already insane, but they were wrong about that.

He wasn’t crazy, but he was getting close.

_Just not… feeling like myself._

After six effacing months in Arkham, he’d started to forget the important things: what it was like to have Batman’s fists connect with his face, the sweet pain it brought, the ability to do what he wanted when the whim struck. He could only see Batman’s shadow, teasing his presence without manifesting. He _needed_ to see him again. To feel that anger, brush up against that power—the only taming force capable of subduing him. He needed it like he needed air. Batman was the goal that kept the Joker going—kept his mind turning ‘round and 'round to face another day in Hell.

But, even though he couldn't bring Batman to life, the Joker couldn’t shake _her._

Miriam was still there. _Always_ there. The worst part was that she never _said_ anything. She just stared, never smiling, cocking her head to the side and looking down on him. She was doing that then, standing in the rec room corner, dressed in a bright yellow shirt that made her stick out against the sea of sterile white as her near-glowing eyes bored into him. He preferred it when she sung to him in her own fit of madness all those months ago, her beautiful break from reality as she waited to die. 

_Stop it. Thinking about her makes it worse._

Miriam hardly left him anymore, her presence even starting to leak into his dreams. He never heard anything new, just repetitions of moments long gone, mostly drowned out by the other voices made worse by the meds he shouldn’t be on. They made him ill and they made him _hate her._

_Hatehatehatehatehatehatehate—_

Reality and imagination were almost one and the same to him, but he didn’t fight it as much as he had in the beginning—it was his only tie to the _before_ , when he was a free man doing what he did best. So he held onto his visions. He’d kill her for it later, but, yet again, he needed her in a way he didn’t want to. There was a solution to his Miriam problem, and he’d make it happen.

_Just as soon as I say “buh-bye” to this godforsaken place._

He already had a plan for when he got out. They’d be searching for him, so he’d need to be quick. Kill the doctors who aided in his humiliation, skin the orderlies who forced those meds inside him, and eviscerate the guards and shove their _fucking_ insides down their throats. Then, _then_ he could find Miriam. He didn’t know _what_ he’d do, but it would be _something._

_Way to imbue all that conviction in there. Christ._

He’d make it so he’d forget her just like he did everything else that brought him pain. Purge her from his system and wipe his hands of the affair. That was it. That’s all that needed to happen. _Then_ he could find his Bat. Focus on what _really_ mattered.

_Need to get out first._

When the Joker looked up, he first saw Miriam standing three inches from his nose, her black hair and brown skin making her a blighted apparition he couldn’t shake. What was worse were the eyes. Almost glowing and always unflinching. He’d even started to delude himself into thinking he could _smell_ her. It wasn’t possible, of course. She wasn't _real_. The meds were making him… _wrong._ He couldn’t be on them anymore. _Couldn’t_.

_Stop thinking about it._

The Joker growled and blinked hard—a new trick he learned to banish her in the daylight.

_Too bad it doesn’t work any other time._

Miriam was gone, and a TYGER guard took her place. He wasn’t smiling, either.

“0801, stand up,” the guard said, looking like an oversized horsefly in his black fatigues. Everything about Arkham was like that—too goddamn _bright_ that anything with a hint of colour or contrast stuck out like a sore thumb. “ _Stand up,_ 0801,” he repeated.

_Starting to dawdle, aren’t I?_

The Joker didn’t move right away, only cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes, knee bouncing. “Do I get a _please?”_ he asked.

The guard responded by whipping out his baton, extending it fully at his side. The threat was clear.

Raising his hands, the Joker nodded along, suddenly more eager to cooperate. “Alright, _alright,_ jeez.”

The TYGER guards weren’t as brutal as they could have been but, from what Joker gathered, most of them weren’t even honest to god _Gothamites_. Many of the guards were hired from all over the country—likely a private contracting firm. Money must’ve been good to work a place like Arkham.

_Also less likely to hold a grudge._

But no less willing to try their best to show the Joker how to make his insides feel like ground beef when he misbehaved.

Simon started biting on a nail as the Joker swung out his arms and clapped his rigid palms against tense thighs.

This was it. What he’d been waiting for.

“Time to check-in. Rec time’s over,” the guard said.

It was just half-past eight in the morning. Breakfast was at nine. The guards always kept a lower amount of staff in the early mornings, coming in between breakfast and lunch when the patients’ energy levels were up; when they were awake and moving around. Most of them were so drunk on drug-induced sleep in the mornings that they were easy to handle with just the orderlies and a few guards. There weren't that many high-risk patients, with the Joker being their most notorious patient admitted. Meant that he got _special_ treatment. Guards escorted him everywhere, not orderlies.

But the Joker had an advantage for once.

_And it’s not just the knife._

“So soon? But Simon and I were _just_ getting ready to play, weren’t we?” he asked, craning his neck around to give his companion a grin. What usually made Simon perk up and smile made his blood run cold, and he cowered into the couch like an oft-kicked dog. “We were gonna play _Scrabble_ , right, Simon?”

Simon sat ramrod straight. The Joker just said a trigger word—something he’d been embedding in the sick man’s brain for weeks. At the time, the Joker did it because he was feeling mean. But now it was a tool that served a purpose. A very important one.

Simon wrapped his arms around his head and began to scream. Rocking back and forth, Simon went headlong into a visceral panic attack, fingernails digging into his skin as he shrieked. The entire room tensed and turned their attention to the trio. Other, less stable, patients were agitated, finding their own reasons to feel anxious. The mood of the room changed quickly. 

“ _Goddamnit_ , can I get some assistance up here?” the guard asked, speaking into his radio. Joker stood stock-still, smile arcing up towards his eyes as he watched Simon do more than he hoped for.

Simon— _unfortunately for him—_ had very clear fears. He was afraid of pain, tight spaces, and blood. The Joker knew because Simon told him immediately when asked.

_Could do with more guys like that._

Whenever they had rec time, the Joker would sit them at a table, pull out the Scrabble board, and associate every fear the man had with the game. He’d coat the tiles in his blood after pricking his thumb with a safety pin, pinch or otherwise bruise Simon while talking about the rules of the game and pin him against the wall, increasing the pressure until Simon started hyperventilating. The Joker worked until the word itself brought on a complete state of terror in Simon.

_Think Pavlov would’ve been proud of me?_

He didn’t _like_ being mean to Simon— _well… that’s not_ really _true, is it?—_ but desperate times called for desperate measures. He’d been doing something similar with Susan. She smiled at him a couple of times in the beginning when they first let him out of his cage, tried asking about his face all nice like; a curious soul. He’d responded by stealing things of hers and making sure sharp shards of plastic from his broken cutlery found their way into her food. She stopped looking at him entirely, finally learning that anyone's best bet around him was to be afraid and stay away. 

_Serves her right._

_“We’re patrolling the perimeter. Units inbound in six minutes,”_ said a voice through the guard’s receiver. Looking around and only finding two nurses and an extra guard, the man— _now to be referred to as Meat-sack One—_ waved them over.

“Send backup when available, taking level seven patient 0801 to Nursing Station Three,” Meat-sack One replied, sighing and appearing exhausted already when Simon started pulling out tufts of his own hair, all of which came away bloody. “You three handle him. Reinforcements will be here in six minutes; bolt the door behind me.”

_Added bonus: no one here will follow._

Waiting until he received affirmation, the guard swung his baton towards the exit. “Move, 0801.”

The Joker all too willingly obeyed, keeping his laughter inside and struggling to maintain a straight face. They had a strict policy with the Joker—always having one guard on him at all times. If any others moved with him, they added more. The Joker was slight before, but he looked gaunt from not eating for weeks on end. Disregarding his face, the Joker just didn’t look like a threat. Until that point, he was dangerous in theory for most.

_Rookie mistake._

Simon’s muffled sobs followed them out. He wouldn’t have a chance to make it up to him, but the Joker would send a gift basket. Learning his fellow inmates’ weaknesses and vulnerabilities had become the hobby that kept him sane once they started letting him out of his cell, and they’d all regret the choice.

_Every. Single. One._

Once they cleared the doors leading from the rec room to the first network of hallways, the Joker kept his eyes fixed on the doors as they passed. They were walking back to the High-Risk Ward, where they kept the burlier orderlies for those who still didn’t like taking their medication or otherwise acted up.

The Joker meant what he said about living up to expectations, creating a false sense of security. Because Joker had levelled out his violence, acting like a fool— _a dumb one, too—_ and listening to his doctor’s orders with little fuss, the men and women he saw every day started to forget. They forgot that he orchestrated a reign of nightmares for two weeks. They forgot that, because of him, fifty-nine people were dead. In there, he was just a clown without his makeup—a disfigured face, unstable mind, and a black soul who couldn’t seem to keep one thought in his head after the next.

So, when the Joker started humming, skipping and tripped, falling to the ground in a heap, Meat-sack One didn’t necessarily think something was wrong.

_He should’ve._

He’d mapped out this route, remembered where every closet was, who was more likely to be around. The Joker chose to fall in front of one of the said closets, and when he stayed down, he waited again.

_Four seconds._

“Get up, 0801,” Meat-sack One barked.

The Joker ignored him.

_Three._

A click of the baton extending, heavy boots scuffing the freshly polished linoleum.

“ _Move_ before I make you,” came the next warning.

_Two._

Arm raised, ready to strike down on the Joker’s back as he stayed hunched on the floor, Meat-sack One thought the Joker was being difficult, his ears suddenly ceasing to function. But the Joker wasn’t doing that—he was coiling back, making his body into a spring. His hand found the handle of his knife, blood soaking the bottom hem of his pants where it cut his skin.

_One._

The Joker sprung. Jumping up and aiming true, his knife found a home in Meat-sack One’s neck. Right in that exposed part of his skin between the fatigues and his helmet. His eyes rolled and body trembled with vitality as Meat-sack One gurgled some spit and blood up, choking as his throat became a funnel through which his blood could drain. The Joker stood there, feeling the warmth he missed more than anything coat his hands, as small pools of blood ran down his arms.

Pulling out the knife and holding Meat-sack One aloft, the Joker growled low in his ear, “Uh, than _ks_ for this. I, ah… _really_ neede _d_ tha _t_.” The man in his arms couldn’t say anything, just clinging to the Joker as the panic faded until he saw nothing at all.

But Joker didn’t have time to relish the moment. Using the little strength he had, he pulled off the keycard attached to the dead man’s hip and let himself into the closet behind him. Dragging the man behind, Joker fumbled around in the dark, working quickly. All he needed was to temporarily look the part. The black of the dead man’s clothes would hide the blood, but he had to move fast enough that no one would look closely at his face. His own trademark grin would give him away.

 _Can’t have that, can we?_

This is also where his _other_ advantage came into play. The willingness to be savage and letting the pure course of will drive him through. It had to be enough. Had to be. He’d _make it_ be enough. 

Within six minutes, Joker wore Meat-Sack One’s uniform, the high neck of the combat shirt pulled up to cover his neck and lower half of his face. He’d seen the other guards do the same even in the late spring heat. It _needed_ to work.

_It will._

Swallowing back his awakening bloodlust and opening the door enough to let in the light from the hallway, the Joker scouted for anyone who’d get in his way. Fortune must’ve been smiling on him because the hallway remained deserted.

“Natural, buddy, act _natural,”_ he muttered to himself. Joker wasn’t exactly sure what that meant anymore, but he tried to keep his gait even and his limbs still, calling back to old habits formed a lifetime ago as he kept his back straight, ignoring how those same memories closed his throat. “That’s it… _natural._ Natural.”

He kept repeating that until he remembered that talking to oneself under their breath was _decidedly_ frowned upon. Shaking his head and the thoughts away, he marched forward, keeping his eyes on the freshly buffed floors as he followed the winding hallways.

_Left, right, right, gate, left, nurses’ station, right, gate, courtyard exit._

That was the path he engrained in his mind—the one pattern he wouldn’t let himself forget. Through everything else, that was what he kept clear. All that remained was following through.

The Joker wasn’t used to sweating, to being nervous. But he was—something like an urgent imperative drove him on, making his movements jerky and his forehead drip with sweat. The Joker almost didn’t recognize it—that feeling of insecurity that came along with executing a plan. Had he really changed so much since he’d been there, reduced him down to a skulking rat? Fire, blood, guns, and knives—oh _, all the knives_ — _those_ were his domain; his weapons of choice. He liked making a scene, personally delivering the punchline. He wasn’t… whatever _this_ was.

_You’re whatever you need to be. Focus._

When the first group of nurses turned a corner, the Joker gripped the handle of his knife hard, imagining what it’d feel like to stab them over and _over and—_

_Focus._

They passed him by, visiting amongst themselves in their bright scrubs and charts clutched in hand. Dressed as a guard, he was a comforting presence, not something to be feared. How things _changed_ for him when the scars weren’t visible. It would be _easy_ to kill them. They weren’t looking. Not paying attention. So easy he could still—

 _No, no, no—_ focus _._

An unneeded detour.

_Yeah—yeah, unneeded._

The coloured rings circling the overhead lights created halos around his vision; the floor rippled under his feet. Vertigo nearly knocked him down.

_Uh, ignore that little blip, pal._

Focusing, _right_. The drugs were still affecting him, making his mind not work right.

 _Focus,_ focus.

He’d be missed soon. His vision sharpened, but something else remained. Ravenous and hungry. The taste of freedom made him wild, raring to sink his teeth into something.

_Or someone._

With the blade shoved up his sleeve, he made himself keep staring ahead, taking each carefully plotted turn and going a little faster. Something warm trickled down his arm. Looking down, he saw bright crimson against the bleached white floor. He cut himself, and, looking behind him, saw the trail of blood he left behind.

_Move._

His next test came too quickly: the gate that would take him into the Low-Risk Ward. Fewer guards and less security. He could get out into the courtyard through there. Clenching his wounded hand tight with the cuff of his sleeve, stemming the immediate flow of blood, he swiped his borrowed keycard and passed through unimpeded. Mad giddiness threatened to overshadow his caution. It was the blood. Blood always got him excited.

“Keep it _together_ , pal,” he muttered, hands contorting and shoulders rolling up, his neck craving to move forward and resume his usual hunched posture.

“What’s that?” someone asked.

When the Joker turned, an excuse ready on his lips, he found Miriam standing before him. She wore a white doctor’s coat, black hair twisted into a tight bun, eyebrows knitting in concern. His excuses died on his tongue and he struggled to think rationally. Rabid excitement bit into his neck. 

_Oh, she finally decides to come visit, huh?_

Just when he thought of where he’d like to stick his knife next, something hit him.

_Figuratively speaking._

No, something wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t _him_ at that moment. He was Meat-sack One.

_Blink then. You’re fucking hallucinating._

“Uh, w-what?” he asked, choking on the words.

The Joker blinked hard, but the woman with Miriam’s face didn’t disappear. Sweat dripped into his eye, and he resisted the urge to wipe it away.

“Oh, I thought… I thought you were asking me something?”

Now it was the doctor’s turn to be confused. Vertigo came back with a vengeance, nearly taking Joker out at the knees. It was as if he could see his ability to control himself—the one thing he valued above _everything_ —evaporating.

 _Fuck these_ fucking _pills. Ignore her. IGNORE._

“No,” he said, tongue probing his scars, scratching against the fabric of his bloody shirt—tasting the iron, the metallic tang that was so dearly missed.

 _She_ looks _fucking real and she_ sounds _fucking real._

The hallucinations had never been this bad before. Not so real as to interact with him directly. Terror made his mind shrink back. His reason was going, leaving something feral in its place.

_Movemovemove—_

His eye twitched and he snarled. Turning on his heel and forcing himself back into a stilted march, he kept going before _he_ was the one who ruined everything. His legs shook, and he ignored the sounds of annoyance coming from the imposter behind him.

_She ain’t here and you gotta detox. Get this shit outta your system._

Rational thoughts—something he usually shunted to the side, were his friend here. He made himself think of getting out, hopping the barb-wire fence and disappearing in the trees. Alone and on his own. Exactly what he needed. _Freedom._

_Left, nurses’ station, right, gate, courtyard exit._

He repeated his mantra, feet getting heavy.

_Gogogogogo—_

Keeping his head down, the Joker swaggered—just like he’d seen the other TYGER guards do dozens of times—past the nurses’ station, acting more confident than he felt. His vision blurred, but the gate and his freedom were around the corner.

The Joker was on the verge of making it—the end goal in sight, when something else caught his eye. A face he etched into memory.

Bulging cheeks. Almost-unibrow. Pasty skin. Short.

 _Ronald_ fucking _McCreary._

The man who said the Joker was a _freak_. Held him down as they shot him full of poison and took those photos. Judged him and called him an _insect_. Stripped off his clothes and mocked everything the Joker always wanted to hide. Laughed at him as he poked and prodded. Enjoyed the Joker’s suffering. A _waste_ of oxygen and the carbon that made up his oversized form.

Ronald leaned against the counter behind the nurses’ station desk, laughing along with some woman beside him. Thick grates of metal stood between the Joker and Ronald- _goddamn-_ McDonald and something snapped. Any semblance of thought disappeared. He became only a bundle of impulses, reduced down to an animal-like state of choking insanity.

_Blood._

The Joker swore he’d make them pay. Thought about it every night. What it’d look like. How it’d feel. He wanted them dead. He wanted them _extinguished_ and the place in a consuming inferno behind him. Black hate made him _strong_. Made things _clear_.

The Joker wouldn’t be denied his vengeance.

And he’d start with Ronald, work his way up the list. His bloodlust overrode any reason he managed to grasp before. He only saw red, and he was starting to suck at the wet patches of blood soaking the collar of his shirt. 

_Death._

They—the nurses and orderlies—didn’t recognize the laugh. It’d been so long since he found it in him to cackle in happiness rather than spite, but he had a reason to share the music again. His keycard worked on the thick steel door trapping the nurses’ inside—a barrier meant to protect them. Now it would serve to make sure they never got out.

_Knives._

Somewhere amongst the screams, the Joker’s face was exposed. Not that it mattered. They had no weapons—it wasn’t a fair fight. And the Joker didn’t care. He wanted them to hurt—hurt just as bad as they hurt him. Retribution, even on proxies, was the goal. An undeniable drive that needed sating.

_Knivesknivesknivesknives—_

He wasn’t sure what he was doing, only that it made him warm. Imbued him with something he’d lost. His little ball of light, his reason for living. He found it again in violence.

_Unstoppable force._

Batman would come out now. He was the only one who’d make this stop. An outward manifestation of restraint the Joker no longer possessed.

_Immovable object._

The knife plunged into Ronald as many times as the Joker could raise his arms. He was underwater and no sound pierced through. Not their shouts for mercy, not their screams of pain, not even the growing silence as he snuffed them out, one at a time.

 _“There’s blood on my knife and there’s ash in the air. I am Death, I am grand, and I’ll find no peace tonight!”_ he sang.

The Joker finally found something familiar—something he could take back and hold. Something they stole from him.

_Joy._

Raising the knife to sink it into a man who wasn’t alive to feel it, caked in the blood that wasn’t his and the overpowering stench of urine, Joker didn’t stop until a flashbang grenade concussed him, the swift swing of a baton cracked down on his shoulder, snapping his collarbone. His laughing mixed with sobbing. Heavy heaves that were difficult for an outsider to distinguish one from the next, and not even he could say which was which.

He knew what he lost, and, at that moment, it didn’t matter. He was God. _Their_ God. The one who ruled life and death. That’s what he was— _what he’d always be._ He—

Lost all consciousness when the taser bit his skin and jolted his bones, twisting his muscles and nerves in on themselves until the sweet blending of pain and death and blood and pleasure and hate— _so much hate_ —became that ball of light, that one ray he could hold, and then it left him all at once. Disappearing. Abandoning him in the dark.

Once again, the Joker was lost. Alone. And, this time, he didn’t want to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support! It means a lot, and I'll be back soon with another update :). Definitely let me know what you think! ❤


	5. Let's Hear Him Squeal

"Are you suggesting I should have anticipated this, Eugene?" Dr Hugo Strange asked. He was in his office, the soft glow of twilight suppressed by the powerful beams that illuminated the entirety of the courtyard below the window. Fingers twitching in the confines of his black gloves, Strange controlled his breathing. "Am I an omniscient being capable of predicting the guiles of a madman with a predilection for wanton violence?"

"N-No, sir, that's not what I-I was suggesting—"

"Silence," Strange said, the lilt of his accent muffling the sound. His voice was quiet but no less commanding. Eugene obeyed, his open gob shutting with a _click_ of his teeth. A headache throbbed behind Strange's eyes, but he forced himself to be calm. "Explain yourself then, before I run out of patience."

It was the only invitation Eugene would get, and his thick swallowing made a vein throb in Strange's temple. "I… I was just… he should've been isolated from the other patients, in longer periods of therapy. He—he'd been complaining about his medication doses for _weeks_. We simply—we could've p-prevented this from happening at all."

Strange sighed and turned away from the window, from the black horizon of trees that blotted out the crescent moon, and tilted his head to the side, taking in Eugene's nervous appearance. The man was pale and sweating, brown hair stuck to his forehead, hands trembling so hard he could barely hold his clipboard.

 _Spineless imp_ , Strange thought.

Eugene was an honest man. Fresh out of Gotham University's psychiatric nursing program and completing his practicum at Arkham. He was an idealist, filled with soft ideas about how to treat the animals that wore human skins. Strange didn't need people like Eugene for dealing with ilk such as the Joker. Milder cases, perhaps, but Eugene was not ready to help in Strange's holy crusade, didn't have the stomach for it.

When Strange didn't say anything, Eugene continued, "Th-Three people _died._ They—they—"

"Perhaps you should take the rest of the week off, Eugene," Strange said, not unkindly. It wasn't purely out of goodwill; he didn't want to be around a snivelling boy who touted useless drivel in his ear. "It will be a paid absence. I know Misha was in your program."

Strange was referring to one who survived the Joker's murder spree in the nurses' station. She'd lost a lot of blood, but she was alive. What state her mind would be in when she awoke was another matter.

_Another soul tainted. Pity._

Eugene hung his head, intermittently squeezing his eyes shut to keep back the tears. Strange suppressed the annoyance that pulled at his mouth.

"Y-Yeah, I… I think you're right," Eugene admitted at last.

Walking up to the young man, Strange clasped his hand firmly on Eugene's shoulder. "Go and rest, come back when you are ready. Take solace in knowing the Joker will answer for his actions."

The Joker would, but it wouldn't happen in a court of law. His first appearance had been postponed pending additional criminal charges. The GCPD was taking their time building their case, ensuring that the Joker couldn't get out on a technicality. It meant Strange had time to start his work.

"Please send in Jonathan Crane on your way out," he said. Eugene nodded, eyes shaky as his hands, and failed to hide his skepticism.

 _Assuage his concerns later,_ Strange thought. Even after reassigning Crane's case file, he had to mitigate the suspicions of the staff. Even as head of Arkham Asylum, appearances had to be maintained.

As Eugene walked away, shutting the heavy wood door behind him, Strange's smile fell. In truth, he _did_ anticipate the Joker doing something of this calibre. The man was an animal. Barbaric. Poor impulse control and an insatiable appetite for violence.

_Death was always an inevitability._

Strange included it in his calculations, but he expected the Joker to act sooner. Strange had done him no favours with his medication, but the Joker was a special case. A once in a lifetime opportunity to examine a mind so unhinged. But, there was something more important than that.

"You know, these little visits to your office leave a lot to be desired. I thought this… whatever _this_ is would be more than talking," Crane said.

The corner of Strange's mouth twitched as he turned back towards the door. "Do not worry, Jonathan. Today we put our theories into practice."

Walking back to his desk, drawing an old iron key from the pocket of his coat, Strange unlocked a drawer and removed one small, unmarked bottle. Holding it up to the light, he considered its contents carefully. Here is where he was truly playing with fire, taking a gamble where the stakes meant _everything._

"I do hope your time away from your books and notations has not dulled your mind," he said, taking slow strides to join Jonathan at the door before continuing, "Your life's work, captured in a thing so small."

Jonathan's eyes widened at the sight of the bottle, its clear contents taking on a new meaning.

"Where did you get that?" Jonathan asked, low and hushed, one brow raising as he recalibrated. "I was under the impression that the police seized all of my materials."

"They had," Strange said, placing the bottle in Jonathan's hand before opening the door, looking down the hall once and continuing onward, motioning Jonathan to follow. "I have… acquaintances in advantageous positions."

He left it at that, stopping at a darkened corridor that had one door at the end of the hall. This was a practiced route, and Strange had no doubts that Jonathan would follow behind. Strange could tell his curiosity would surmount any foolish desire to attempt escape.

 _He has nothing to return to,_ Strange thought.

Reaching the door, Strange gripped the handle before turning to Jonathan, an urgent thought working its way into his preoccupied mind. He was getting too excited, and he needed to remind himself that time was no object—his project would wait.

"There are rules down here, Jonathan. Ones that would be in your best interest to follow."

Jonathan struggled to refrain from rolling his eyes, looking off into a corner, sighing, and inclining his head. He would listen, fall in line.

_For now._

Unlocking the door, they were both met with a chilly blast of damp air. The path was obscured by complete darkness, smelling of wet earth and spring chill. Strange disappeared into the black ink of the shadows before an overhead light illuminated the steep set of stairs he descended. Jonathan, upon steeling his nerves, followed behind.

"I do not believe that the imperative of secrecy needs to be emphasized," Strange said, to which Jonathan answered with a scoff. Genuinely smirking, Strange continued, "While we work, cooperation plays to both our benefits. Doing anything rash to jeopardize the work would be unwise, I hope you would agree."

"I do," Jonathan answered, taking in the long, dark hallway that illuminated only as they stepped out of the reach of the previous light above. It was unnerving, not being able to see more than five feet ahead, a sensation Strange grew used to during his many visits.

"Forgive me, I do not believe I made your tasks explicit, have I?"

The hall seemed to stretch on forever, and, despite his thick turtleneck sweater and lab coat, Strange shivered.

"No, you neglected that in our discussions."

They took an unexpected turn to the right, and Strange knew he left Jonathan to scramble to make it before he was swallowed up in the darkness as the lights behind him flickered off. His smirk grew into a grin no one else was present to appreciate as he flashed his teeth to the shadows.

"Your fear toxin is impeccable but hardly useful for curing the insane." The sound of Strange's dress shoes and Jonathan's rubber Crocs hitting the concrete floors were the only sounds to fill the blank void of the tunnels. "I wish for you to reverse engineer it; find means of curing the mind so that the ill may be free from its impurities."

Strange stopped when he didn't hear the extra set of footsteps and turned to find a skeptical Jonathan.

"There is no universal cure for conditions plaguing the mind, Strange, surely you know that," he said, looking at Strange like he would a young boy who voiced his desires to be an astronaut—ambitious, but imbued with the intense probability of failure. "It is easier to exploit weaknesses rather than repair them."

Inclining his head in agreement, Strange motioned for them to continue onward. "I believe you misunderstand me. Ridding one of their blight means they are left as blank slates. Pure souls through which they may be remolded and recreated." Strange could almost hear the retort ready to roll off Jonathan's tongue, default to the long line of ethics ingrained in their lengthy education despite his own actions in previous years. He continued before Jonathan could reply, "We are… _giving_ control to the mind, rather than their illness controlling _them_. Blank slates through which they can be made perfect."

Jonathan almost ran into Strange's back when he stopped mid-stride, like he forgot the path himself, and stood in front of another door—this one crimson. Jonathan shot back in surprise when the overhead lights turned on to reveal a TYGER guard standing at attention to the left of it, eyes staring ahead through the concrete walls.

After a beat and without looking directly at them, the guard opened the door, revealing a room so stark white that the sudden contrast from the hall blinded Jonathan as Strange stared ahead. Blinking and wiping away at the moisture in his eyes, Jonathan joined Strange in his silent observance. It was a medical room with an adjoining lab. Cabinets filled with every manner of equipment and compounds that the previous asylum, underfunded as it was, lacked. Jonathan's eyes went wide as he took it in, and Strange kept staring until Jonathan noticed the most important thing in the room.

It was the Joker—strapped into a medical chair, still asleep from the heavy sedatives they dosed him with for the last fourteen hours. Jonathan might not be, but Strange was ready. Taking his thick, black leather gloves from his pockets and pulling them on, Strange advanced, adjusting an overhead lamp to shine down on the Joker's disfigured face.

"It is time for our work to begin, Jonathan," he said. He wasn't smiling, but the look in his eyes excited something in Jonathan. Gripping his bottle tight, Jonathan's eyes reflected the same glint—that of a scientist embarking on a new journey of discovery.

And the Joker was the subject of that journey—occupied land they would claim as their own and plunder its secrets. Strange had told the courts the Joker might not be fit to stand trial, and he was potentially correct about that. By the time he was through, the Joker wouldn't be fit for much of anything at all.

For as much as Strange believed what he said, nothing was ever that simple. Reaching into his coat, Strange handed Jonathan something he lost upon his second arrest.

Jonathan Crane was reunited with what made him whole—a physical extension of himself. Ripped burlap, torn and stitched and frayed.

Jonathan had his mask. And, Strange was sure, he planned on putting it to good use.

* * *

Pain was a long-time friend that the Joker used to embrace. He'd taken beatings before. _Many._ More than he cared to remember, starting young and occurring so frequently that it was just part of his life—part of _him._

_Some things there's no running away from._

The pain couldn't control him. He didn't _want_ it to control him. So, it didn't. Hadn't for years.

But something changed.

The Joker's break with _civilized_ society was an avalanche that took years to build. But when it went, that was it. Done. _Finere._ The world became clear and the Joker was the one who climbed to the top of the heap— _survival of the fittest, kid_ —trampling on what came before. He was _strong._ If not physically, then in every other way that counted.

He didn't feel strong anymore.

Pain betrayed him. He was no longer its master, and it ripped through his body in a way it hadn't in a long time. It hurt to move his eyes behind their closed lids, to twitch his tired muscles. For the first time, he wondered if this was how Miriam felt during their time together—when it was so clear she was hurting and he laughed at her.

_Think this might be Karma?_

_Nah._

Even if he wasn't the one in control of what happened, he could still be in control of himself.

_No, I can't, apparently. Wouldn't be here if that were the case._

But that wasn't his fault. Something else was at play. The Joker had never lost it quite like that—

_Wait, what did I do?_

He struggled to remember. Already his mind was erasing it away like a bad dream, just like it had for almost everything else. And, like he had before, he offered no resistance.

"Are you awake, 0801?" a voice asked.

Smiling—smiling _big_ was painful, an act of will, but he made it happen.

"'Fraid you'll have to, ah, wait a _little_ longer if ya have somethin' _fun_ in mind. _Daddy's_ tired out, and _consent_ is the name of the game." The sentence was excruciating to utter, his voiced slurred and quiet— _you mean_ weak _—_ and he didn't know if he could summon anything else.

_Better to be blasé early._

His tongue, thick and sticky, moved around his mouth, finding a cracked tooth and lacerations where his teeth bit into the insides of his cheeks. He prodded them as he felt the familiar grooves of his scars.

"Splendid. It would be a shame if you were to sleep through this," the voice said. The Joker began to recognize it—that familiar accent that grated at him. "Your choice to volunteer is a noble one, 0801."

_Wait, what?_

Struggling to open his eyes, the Joker took in a world so goddamn _bright_ that he had to shut them immediately again. With a whir and jolt that made him think he might've lost an arm, he was sitting upright, an involuntary groan building in his throat as he made himself crack his neck even though it felt like it'd been halfway snapped.

"Uh, did I miss a memo somewhere? _Volunteer?"_ he forced out.

The Joker had never volunteered for anything in his life— _not about to now—_ unless volunteering to gut the imbecilic counted. When he managed to blink away the blinding white glare, Strange's face hung above his—slanted eyes dark, almost obscured by the shadow he cast over the Joker, and his beard so close that he could almost feel it against his skin. He wasn't one for personal boundaries, but he felt downright _claustrophobic_. It only compounded when he found he couldn't move his limbs.

"What _exactly_ am I, ah, _'volunteering'_ for, hmm?" he asked, licking his lips and almost Strange's face—making the man draw back. Regret followed the words spilling out of his mouth.

_Almost._

His mouth had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion; he never thought about it before, just following what came to mind.

_No point in holding back._

Here, in a sterile medical room he hadn't seen before, with his body beaten beyond a point he'd ever remembered experiencing, mind fuzzy and unfocused, unable to use his arms—get what was owed to him in any meaningful way—being more strategic with his words would have been wise.

_But no one's accused me of being that, have they?_

"For the new clinical trial. I believe I mentioned that something more… _aggressive_ was needed, did I not?" Strange said, stepping back.

Upon having his field of sight opened to see the entire room, the Joker noticed _Johnny-_ boy for the first time. His head spun.

 _This is… gettin' weird. Even by_ my _standards._

"Look, I'm _flattered_ and all, but you guys, ah—" Joker broke out in a cackle, laughing harder even as it felt like his ribs were puncturing his lungs— _and I know what_ that _feels like—_ and his bones were breaking anew. "You _really_ aren't my, ah… _type."_

The Joker was laughing and meant it, but he couldn't help his body's automatic reactions. He was covered in a cold sweat. Things were coming back to him in flashes—the blood, him singing, Miriam's face setting him off, the feeling of his knife sinking into flesh like a record that kept skipping. Strange smiled and Crane stood in the background, tilting his head in the clinical manner of a doctor analyzing a cadaver. He wore the same patient garb as the Joker did, but he was all the _doctor_ now.

_At least he ain't smiling._

"This will be unpleasant," Strange said, going around behind the chair the Joker was strapped to and tightening a strap around his head that he didn't even know was there. "If you cooperate, the effects will be... _slightly_ less painful."

The Joker knew what that meant.

_It'd hurt all the same._

"Bring it on, _Ahab_ ," the Joker answered. He smirked when Strange's eyebrow twitched in annoyance.

"Very well. Jonathan, if you would."

Craning— _hahaha, see the joke?—_ his neck as far as he could, the Joker could see Crane standing behind him, fixing a small bottle with clear liquid into what looked like an inhaler attached to a face mask. He could guess what was going to happen next.

"Ah, _c'mon._ Think of somethin' _original_ , why don't ya," he said, rolling his eyes even though he could feel the strain ripping at his optic nerves. They knew his feet were placed firmly in the _unhinged_ camp, no need to breathe in Johnny-boy's acid-trip-gone-bad concoction. He couldn't find it in himself to feel regret for terrorizing Crane, as if being merciful and leaving the scrawny nerd alone would've changed his current situation.

_Worth every reaction._

The Joker was so distracted with Crane, how his milky skin and spidery fingers looked against the white tile, that he didn't see Strange pick up a syringe and place it against the pulsing vein in his arm. Plunging it in and injecting whatever fresh hell was inside, the Joker's body seized. His cracked tooth split further, shooting agony through the nerve straight to his eye and down the base of his skull. He still managed to giggle as his body thrashed in a fit and Strange _tutted_ at him— _like goddamn Mary_ fucking _Poppins—_ before turning his back to the Joker.

"We will be spending quite a bit of time together now, 0801. You have earned an extended period of isolation; you will not be missed." As the face mask Crane held was fixed over the Joker's mouth and the giggles grew hysterical, Strange continued, "Originally, I had anticipated this moment coming sometime later. After your conviction, perhaps. But you have accelerated the process by your own hand."

He wanted to bite back, say something snarky, but his jaw was wired shut. There was a _click_ and the Joker breathed in something heavy, something that coated his throat and tongue—worked its way down to his lungs and made the room burst into colour. A shimmering wavelength that morphed into piercing prisms that seared his pupils. A face— _but not_ really _a face_ —stared down at him. Black pits for eyes and a stitched smile dripping with blood. Moving from the colour of dry earth to chalk white, the grin widening until its jaw fell down and unhinged like a snake preparing to feast upon a fresh kill. His laughter—as much as it came from him, it came from the new presence as well. With a jerk, the realization hit him.

It was his own face.

 _Now_ there's _a good joke._

The Joker laughed until air wouldn't fill his chest anymore. He knew what this was—what tickled his mind and created the sensation of worms crawling under his skin, burrowing deeper and _deeper_. He couldn't tell if the doctor's expressions changed—and he didn't care—but this, _this_ was just a small alteration of the world he already saw.

He didn't need to say anything because there was nothing worth spewing out.

_Pathetic._

"Interesting."

"We will adjust the dosage. This is only the first trial."

More _scratch-scratching—_ like what he heard during his first day at the asylum. It didn't matter who was talking. But that didn't take precedent anymore. The Joker felt like singing—and so _sing he did._

" _Only you can make all this world seem right,"_ he forced out between cackles, the words slow and purposeful, only barely keeping the original beat, his grin splitting as his body broke apart and the light expanded and contracted and spiders descended from the ceiling. Logic didn't exist anymore, and that was fine by him. " _Only you can make the darkness bright—"_

"Time to see if the other medicine took effect."

The Joker was cranked to sit up higher, every bone and muscles protesting, but he didn't care. He was still singing, and, best of all, Miriam wasn't there to ruin the tune.

"Let us start with some basic questions. What is your name—your _real_ name?"

He answered like he had the first time, with laughter. He didn't break off the string of music, only going to humming so he could hear the voice and purposely ignore it.

"What is your age?"

This was strange. As the world melted together and split apart, swirling and pooling and creating monsters that were inspired, but amateur nonetheless— _wait, what does that say about me?—_ something else tugged at him. A compulsion. An intense one. He felt like he needed to answer.

"Don't remember," he said. It was honest; he long lost track. He could guess, but it was unimportant and therefore disregarded.

"Why did you kill Parker Kwan?"

How long had the Joker been there? Where was he? The grasp on reality he had—tenuous as it was—slipped a little farther away. The past and present coming together to create something new, indecipherable.

"Didn't… _technical_ -ly," he said through clamped teeth. Why were they making him think about that worm, that snivelling coward that the Joker enjoyed watching writhe?

"Please, do not devolve into semantics, 0801. Tell us the truth, now."

He might've put Parker on death's door, but he wasn't the one who pushed him over. Why was he thinking about this anyway?

Something ugly bubbled up like a ball of gas in his chest. Vertigo made his stomach heave.

"N—No."

Silence sucked out the air like a vacuum, making it hard to breathe. His skin started to bubble. Boil.

He saw the Judas' face—the fear and the bruises that made him near-unrecognizable. The blood that dripped from his split lips. Coated his teeth. The black hair matted to his head.

"I hated him." And it was like that burning pit of hate and wrath and resentment seared a hole into his brain. It hurt. It hurt so bad he wanted to rip out his eyes.

"Why?"

Through the hurt, through the memories that came back to smother him, the Joker still felt compelled to speak, any filter to hide the truth in obfuscation gone.

"No… no reason. Don't need one."

That _tutting_ again. A hand made of fire touching his arm. The fingers—they felt familiar.

"Oh, do not tell me you wish for me to believe that. We both know better."

No, even to the Joker that answer wasn't convincing. He _always_ had a reason. Random was an illusion in the human—there was always a choice involved. A pattern even if it only made sense to him alone.

_Only you can make all this world seem right  
Only you can make the darkness bright_

Was he managing to say it out loud? He could hear it playing on a record in the background, tinny in the sparse room.

"Jeal… jealous."

He was angry that he had a life like the one the Joker once wanted for himself. That he broke so easily, gave up what he had without even thinking about what it meant—what it would do. Thoughtless. _Careless_. Deserving of what he got.

His waking dream of Parker changed. He didn't see Parker, bleeding and crying, anymore. The Joker wanted to hold onto that—that familiar sight of pain. He could understand that. But he didn't understand why it disappeared and the burning touch trailed down his arm and grabbed his hand, nearly pulled his fingers from the joints.

_Only you and you alone can thrill me like you do  
And fill my heart with love for only you_

"Little _green_ monster inside of _me._ How 'bout you, Ahab? You got one of those, too, that ya need to lean on to compensate for your, ah, _vertical_ challenges?" Joker asked, his ability to laugh coming back.

_Only you can make all this change in me  
For it's true, you are my destiny_

" _What are you afraid of, J?"_

The Joker tried to bolt upright, growling in pain when he couldn't. He knew that voice. Knew it now like his own.

"I _told you_ , I'm not afraid of _anything,"_ he snarled.

Miriam's hand was the one holding his, burning his arm off until it was a molten stump.

_When you hold my hand I understand the magic that you do  
You're my dream come true, my one and only you_

She appeared like a mirage, solidifying until she was the only thing real. Miriam tilted her head to the side, eyes wide in their observance, calmer than he ever saw in person.

_"You told me not to lie, didn't you? So why are you lying to yourself?"_

"Shut _up,_ Miriam."

"Oh, this is interesting."

The Joker didn't want to hear the song in his head anymore. He wanted this to stop.

_Blink—make her go away._

He blinked over and over _and over_ again, but she stayed in place. Not only could he hear her speaking something new—but he could feel the heat from her body. Everything else was gone, a miasma of colour that she stood apart from, wearing a sweater he remembered seeing in her closet another lifetime ago. Black with small patterns of cat paw prints.

He giggled.

 _Mir-_ cat _._ Cat _print._

He cackled to cover the fact that he didn't think this was funny at all.

_Only you can make this change in me  
For it's true, you are my destiny_

_"Why are you so scared?"_ she asked, black waves spilling over her shoulder, green eyes the only colour that didn't hurt.

He wanted her to die.

"I'm _not."_

_Stopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopit—_

"I hope you are making notations, Jonathan—"

 _"It's alright, J. It'll all be alright,"_ she said.

_When you hold my hand I understand the magic that you do  
You're my dream come true, my one and only you_

"No, no it won't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! A huge, HUGE thank you to everyone who's reading! I appreciate all of you so much ❤. I meant to get this out a little sooner, but I hope you enjoy! I'll be back again soon ;).


	6. Revenant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, there are some... disturbing themes that happen in this chapter. The Joker's unhinged and some weird stuff was bound to happen, so... yep, that's the only explanation I have. Enjoy!

"Go. A- _way_ ," the Joker said for the—he didn't really remember how many times he said it. This could've been the first for all he knew. Or the tenth. Either way, it didn't work.

 _"You don't mean it,"_ Miriam said, head leaned back and resting against the cool concrete walls.

"Ah, yeah, I really, _really_ do."

No, he didn't. But even to his own hallucinations, he couldn't be entirely honest.

_How does that work, anyway, now that I'm thinkin' about it?_

He would have tried shoving her away if he had any command over his own body, but he didn't. The Joker was in agony.

_And I don't say that lightly, pal._

His thoughts were chaotic, difficult to sift and manage. Any attempt at voicing them aloud devolved into hysterical fits of laughter or crying. Sometimes both.

Besides the voices in his head and his own, the room was quiet. He could hear water dripping somewhere, but it was faint and far away. Muffled. When he'd try to sleep, marching footsteps would charge down the hall and he'd bolt upright, expecting them to take him away and preparing in vain to lash out at the people he didn't have any strength against. He'd be like that for hours—waiting. So sure they were coming only to drift off on his watch. _That's_ usually when they'd come for him.

Time was a concept that didn't exist anymore. The only cycle that mattered were the periods of pain and then the small moments of relief. Sometimes he'd get his sense of self back, feel the cogs whirring in his mind—but then they'd come and dash it against the harsh stones beneath their feet for him to gather again, more missing and lost than the time before it.

Besides the evolving hallucinations, there were things that surprised him. Like how much he missed the sun. What it was like to stand on a high ledge and feel the wind. The smell of wet dirt and ash and sweat and— _weirdly enough_ —lavender.

_Don't think about what you can't have. Like cigarettes—_

_Shit._

They'd started testing something new on him. He'd long stopped caring about the _whats_ that they were pumping into him and focusing on the pain. How it made his skin itch, ripple and wriggle like it was a separate entity haphazardly stapled to his skin. Pain made him _real_. Made his world tangible. His own way of marking time.

He knew from what poison they'd been pumping him full of that his skin would feel like it was boiling soon. The routines he'd mocked others for became what he had to look forward to. He'd sweat, feel like he was trapped under a fire—hot coals imprisoned inside him. And just when he thought the fever would take him, the symptoms would ease, recede back and cool him off like ocean waves that he remembered from the _before_.

The Joker wasn't pushing his memories away anymore, not all of them. For the first time in years, he remembered going to a beach. He didn't know how old he was, where the yellow sand, thick under his feet, had been. But he could see it all like he was there again, not trapped in the dark. He saw how the green algae stuck to his swimming trunks. How he'd look for small fish to chase, knowing he'd never catch them but trying anyway. Thinking about it helped—brought back something else that didn't hurt quite as bad.

But then the cycle would start anew. He'd see Strange's face—a man he hated more than anyone else—and Johnny-boy playing dress-up. The visions would change, but the questions hardly deviated. Always about him—his life, searching answers that didn't exist. Sometimes, they didn't ask him anything at all. Just that _scritch-scratching_ as they wrote things down, made appreciative sounds of interest as he screamed. His mind would bend and come close to snapping, but they hadn't broken him.

_Not for lack of trying, hmm?_

_Not yet,_ anyway. That's what Strange would say to him when the Joker spat on his face, " _Give it time, 0801."_ Time, and his inability to properly mark it, was all the Joker had.

Miriam was right—he _hated_ her for it—but he _was_ afraid. Afraid this is all his life would be.

The thought was one that made him cry one night. He couldn't recall the last time that happened, when his emotions overruled his will in a way he couldn't efface with rage. It happened when he was sleeping, the _before_ blending with what he never achieved, everything he thought he wanted a lifetime ago. Dreams left him vulnerable, but he couldn't avoid them. He'd wake up with his face stained and wet and he'd be so angry he'd slam his hands into the wall until the pain broke through the lies his brain told him.

It didn't always work.

The Joker didn't know it, not entirely, but he was in the isolation cells—dragged down to the lower tunnels' night after night—for the last six months. He'd had court dates where he was so sedated he couldn't tell he'd left his room—the delusions and dreams were all the same and expected nothing he saw to be real. The judge had declared him unfit to stand trial; his lawyer argued he wasn't criminally responsible. If anyone were to look at him, they'd agree—there was no way a man in that state would be able to pull off what he had.

It meant that the prosecution went after anyone they could sink their teeth into. But Miriam was gone, out of reach. His lawyer—Brenda Sheppard—fought the city and the new mayor, Arianna Hill, to get him moved, looked at by an outside doctor. The Joker didn't remember the conversations he had with Brenda, couldn't even prop himself up straight, talking to himself and his visions and convincing everyone he truly _was_ insane. The new DA would come after him again—someone had to answer for what happened, the lives lost and the damage to both the people and the city of Gotham. But they'd find no answers from the Joker.

_Nope, nope. Nope-sir-ee-bob._

He giggled in the darkness. Drumming his fingers across his sternum, knowing that there really wasn't something under his skin but that knowledge not hindering the ripples that eked along his muscles, scratched at his bones.

Whatever it was that they were injecting him with to make him talk wasn't working anymore. That was the only place of guile the Joker could use to his advantage—when he was coherent enough to think of it. _They_ didn't know it was useless, so the Joker made things up or kept his mouth shut altogether, indulging the waves of sickness that made it difficult to talk. He couldn't remember a time when he felt weaker than he did already.

They would come for him again soon. This stage—the boiling—was always followed by him being dragged back to that room he hated, to a hell he thought he'd already known.

But the Joker had but one reprieve. One he hated indulging almost as much as he hated Strange.

Miriam never left him, and his hallucinations only grew stronger. She'd stand by the door, follow him in the halls, watch over him as his _oh so caring_ doctors went to work. She was everywhere even though he knew— _logically_ —she wasn't anywhere. He grew accustomed to her being around, her interjections and observations, her cool demeanor.

Then something changed.

Eventually, Miriam began to sit on his bed, curl up beside him on his narrow, threadbare mattress where the hard metal underneath did its steadfast work to ruin his spine. He could feel the weight of her, the heat coming from her body, the soft skin against his. The Joker would get lost in it, being next to the closest thing to a human who wouldn't make him hurt.

_Sad, ain't it? The bitch isn't even real and yet… here we are._

_Fucking pathetic._

He slapped himself across the face when he realized she was right about that, too.

The Joker was mad about his growing dependency, but he was mad about _everything_. Her being there was what allowed him to sleep, distract him. Even though he was in the dark, it was always like Miriam stood out against it all—as if she were in a room with black walls and a spotlight that followed her around. It made her skin glow, her eyes lanterns that guided him. Most times, her appearance didn't change. At least, not in the early days.

This night was different. The session he was recovering from was particularly bad. They cut open the back of his neck to stick something inside— _at least, I think they did_ —and they strapped rubber doohickeys to his head. He didn't remember much, only that the shots of electricity that made his eyes roll to the back of his head and his muscles two sizes too small was something else he hated. Another grievance added to the list of thousands.

Hate kept him going, and Miriam was there to guide it, give it focus.

It was like his body died, lost somewhere between his room and that bright white hell that gave no shelter. His scars, ever the brutal marker, were what remained to remind him of who he was. He'd gnaw on them until they'd bleed and then feel a little more awake for the taste of iron in his mouth. That was the only physical hurt he could prod, gain some control back. Most of his hurts were inside, and he couldn't reach in and soothe it.

But Miriam could.

Despite everything _they_ did, she never faltered. She was there with him still, hair spilling down her back like it was alive and reaching with small hands disguised as curls.

 _"Does it hurt?"_ she asked, startling him. When he looked to where she was resting a moment before, he found her over top of him instead, knees on either side of his waist. " _Do you enjoy it, pain without a remedy?"_ Her hand touched his burning head, somehow cooling where the rubber knobs had burned him.

"Go _away_ ," the Joker answered.

He wanted her to leave. He wanted her to stay. He wanted her inside him, healing the pain like a lovely specter possessing his body.

" _We both know you don't mean that,"_ she whispered. Her voice was quiet, like that _drip-drop_ of the water in the walls.

Miriam leaned over him, hands going to his shoulders. It felt so real the Joker considered bludgeoning his head against the titanium sink. The boiling under his skin was so intense that he wasn't wearing his scratchy sack that passed as a shirt, and her hair draped over her shoulders to tickle his nose, brush against his bare chest.

"Why're you here?" he demanded. The question surprised him, how it came out of his own mouth, how it sounded so… _desperate._

_When's the last time you felt that?_

Miriam didn't answer. Her eyes were open and staring, not filled with the fear he knew so well before, but with desire. This was entirely new, this look—this feeling. She wore a tank top that showed the slant of her waist as she reclined over him, no pants to hide the dip of her hips as she relaxed. What scared him more than the physical reaction of seeing her like that was the sensations surging in his head.

_Shit, don't think about it. You're good at avoidance._

Now the Joker had picked up Miriam's habit—lying to himself. He didn't avoid; he confronted things head-on. But he didn't know how to deal with this.

She was above him, looking like God, and it still wasn't enough. He couldn't get enough of her and it was driving him mad.

 _Well, mad-_ der.

His hand wandered down his stomach, filled with the need for something—physical release, temporary Nirvana—anything to give him a moment of pure clarity. When he closed his eyes, he swore he felt her lips grazing along his neck with the slightest touch of teeth.

It was intoxicating. _Infuriating_. And he wanted more.

In every facet of his life, he valued control, his ability to be the master of himself and everyone else. It's what allowed for him to succeed—to beat out the men steeped in mediocrity below—and it's what kept him safe. Not his physical self, necessarily, but that secret part of him he told himself no one would ever reach again.

He couldn't convince himself this was all just a passing fancy, something that would evaporate when he was out of Arkham and killed her, ridding himself of it all. The sensations now were too real for that, the much-needed endorphin rush to the head clouding the truth. Reality and fiction were one and the same now, he realized.

Her lips left his neck and his eyes followed her movements, tracking the twitches in her arms, the way the bones moved under the skin. She sat upright and leaned back to straddle him. He saw the flex of her muscles as she arched her spine, leaning back onto one hand as the other held his side. He could feel the cool handprint she left on his skin, the fingers squeezing him tight. In one blink the tank top she wore before was gone, only wearing a plain white bra and her eyes fixed on him, breathing deeply. She smiled and it was gentle and kind—filled with want that made him ache.

He watched as she reached back and undid the clasp of her bra, sliding it slowly off her arms before dropping it to the floor—just like he had done to her in another life. But she didn't look sickly and weak anymore, bleeding and bruised. The marks were gone and her skin was darkened copper, but the scar— _his_ scar, the one he gave her—was all clean edges, fully healed and slightly pink against her chest.

It made it worse, knowing she was his and no matter how much he hated her, that he didn't want this to stop.

He watched in reverence as she bared herself for him. Every inch of her skin. Her small breasts, the peeking glances of her ribs with her every inhale, the sharp lines of her bones and the soft curves of her thighs and stomach. She leaned down again, farther this time, her nipples grazing across his chest. He could swear he felt Miriam's lips brush against his, the gentle exhale of her breath.

And then she did something that the Joker never expected. Miriam's body slid down his, her eyes still trained on his own, and brought herself down between his thighs. He was certain he could feel her burning touch along his legs, the sensations of her hands stimulating his nerves with pleasant zaps of electricity. She flipped her hair over one shoulder, framing her face, and her lips parted. Slowly, ever so slowly, her head descended until her soft lips and the tip of her tongue touched his length.

Then the Joker had the most powerful orgasm he'd ever experienced in his life.

It took his breath away. It made his chest seize and white flashes of pleasure and shock at the flash of lightning taking hold of his brain. It was overwhelming. He bit his tongue— _hard_. The high in his mind was one of the greatest he'd ever experienced. It made him feel humming and _alive_ even as it drained the power from his limbs.

When the feelings left as quickly as they came, he laid there in the dark for a long time. His disbelief was so paralyzing that, for a moment, he felt like his old self—that power of his brain churning and thinking.

 _What the_ fuck _was that?_

This had to be a new level of psychosis, a new sign of irredeemable insanity. How else did any of what he just experienced—what he just did—make any sense?

" _Wowie_. What are ya, _fourteen_ or somethin' now? Fuck. _Jesus_ ," he muttered to himself.

Loathing and bloody wrath filled him in the aftermath, as his body trembled with small aftershocks. This is what geeky teenagers who couldn't get laid got off to— _Johnny would know this intimately_ —jacking off to waking wet dreams with people they'd never otherwise have the chance of touching. He wasn't one of those—had _never_ been one. No one had ever summoned that sort of visceral reaction from him before. It was terrifying, something his body couldn't rationalize to his brain—and something his mind was unwilling to pick apart.

And what made all of this so much worse—making him choke and stare ahead in a new sort of agony—was how much he found himself wanting more.

* * *

"What is the status of 0801?" Dr Strange asked, giving a cursory glance at his other patient files.

Eugene looked down at the chart in front of him, at the irregular numbers that made his stomach hurt. "H-He's… s-stable—physically, anyway. But his—"

"Do not trouble yourself, Eugene." Strange looked up at him from over his glasses, stern at first before forcing a small grin. "As long as his vitals are stable, then the rest is rudimentary—part of his treatment."

Frowning, Eugene looked at his shoes, resisting the urge to scuff them against the hardwood floors. It was a bad habit, something he did when he was nervous. He didn't like being around Strange, his unflinching gaze that made Eugene feel like an idiot. His stutter, something he learned to work through in speech therapy, came back like he was seven again as soon as Strange entered the room. From how he was looking down at his desk, Eugene could tell he was dismissed.

 _C'mon, grow a pair. You can't leave it any longer,_ Eugene thought.

Taking a deep breath, feeling it fill his lungs, Eugene spoke with slow purpose. "Sir, he's been in a constant—" He felt his tongue twist when Strange glared. He took in another breath, "Constant psychosis. It's been six months since the… the _incident_ and this long without improvement is abnormal. I-In fact, I believe he's deteriorating."

Strange sighed and adjusted his glasses. A shiver of irrational panic crawled up Eugene's spine. He knew he was risking his future career, standing up to the head of the asylum and questioning his methods. Eugene had tried doing so before, earlier in the Joker's habitation in an isolation cell. His conscience, everything he learned about providing care to those who needed it despite their actions and differences of personhood, and the knowledge that something was very wrong nagged at Eugene. Even when he went home from work, Eugene would think about how he was failing to do his best. He might not be a doctor, but Eugene was a firm believer in the Hippocratic oath. It only became more clear with time that Strange was not.

"Are you implying that you know more than his doctor?" Strange asked, voice low. He didn't move from his desk, but he straightened, bringing his hands together and clasping them tightly. "This has been a recurring theme, Eugene. Is this something we need to broach in a more formal manner?"

Eugene didn't miss the implied threat. He was in the next stage of his practicum and almost finished school. Escalating this would mean Strange speaking with his supervisor at Gotham University, and he could already see how that would end. Feeling like a coward, Eugene hung his head.

"N-No, Dr. St-Strange," he said, the nervousness making his hands shake. "M-My ap-apologies."

That seemed to be enough for Strange. He said nothing, but when his eyes went back to his files, Eugene knew he wanted him gone. With heavy feet, Eugene went to the door and struggled to keep his emotions in check.

"Have a pleasant evening, Eugene," Strange said just as Eugene was almost through the door. His hand froze on the door handle as he looked back at Strange. "May your dreams be kind."

 _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Eugene thought.

The smile Strange had on his face made Eugene consider quitting, right then and there. It wasn't the first time the urge hit him square in the chest, a call of self-preservation so primal that it overrode reason during his time at Arkham. But it was never with the patients; it was always with Strange.

Saying nothing, Eugene didn't even nod before quickly leaving, shutting the door harder than he meant to on his way out. His breathing was ragged as he struggled to calm down. He didn't know _why_ his reaction was so visceral, why something was so wrong with Strange. But he knew he wasn't the only one who felt like he did. Whispers were common amongst the temporary staff—the interns, nurses on short-term contracts. There were worries about patients suddenly being reassigned doctors only to never be seen in the common rooms again or listed on the medication charts.

He didn't know why exactly, but something was very wrong.

Walking down the white halls, the hammering rain outside audible and muffling the sound of his footsteps, his mind raced. He couldn't just do nothing anymore, what kind of person would that make him if he did?

He wasn't an idiot, Eugene knew what the Joker had done. Misha—his friend that Joker stabbed, was someone he cared about. The Joker's violence when he was relatively sane terrified him. He even knew a few people who were hurt in the fallout of the events that rocked Gotham a year ago. But time blunted the immediacy of his fear and distaste for the man, gave time for empathy to move in. Even with everything the Joker did, nobody deserved to live like he was.

_Then what do I do?_

It wasn't until he was in the recreation room, standing in a corner with the other nurses, that an answer came to him. GCN was playing on the static-crackled television in the corner for the patients' hour of TV time. The sound was low, but Eugene could read the banner at the bottom.

_'CLOWN LAWYER SUING ARKHAM ASYLUM.'_

_Brenda Sheppard,_ he thought. The Joker's lawyer. She'd been trying to get him transferred for months. An idea grew in Eugene's brain. 

His career might go down the drain, but he had stood by long enough. No job was worth stomaching even the best-case scenario of what was happening at the asylum. For the first time, Eugene had a way of trying to make things right.

* * *

"Da- _da_ dada- _da—"_

The Joker was beginning to forget what music sounded like, how it tickled his eardrums and washed over him. So, he made his own.

" _Ba_ da _da-da_ bum, _ba_ da _da-da—"_

The _before_ was becoming more immediate. He might be trapped in the dark, but he hallucinated in colour. He was in a blue room with a small bed meant for a child, a lamp with a cowboy boot for the stand with a cowhide shade. The Joker couldn't say if that was his room or not.

_Nah. Never had anything that nice. Or clean._

He saw a boy, but it couldn't be him. Blond curls and a freckled nose, bruise on his cheek and too hard a look in his eye for someone so small. The kid was frozen in place, still as a statue. The Joker's height _—yeah, yeah, me_ _—_ was the same as he remembered, tall and stretching, and he stooped over the kid. But he couldn't keep looking at this boy, this stranger he already started erasing from his mind, and he took in the rest of the room. It looked like any other kid's room in a normal house. All things he knew definitively he never had. On the dresser was a box. Cherrywood with golden handles, perfectly square.

He walked forward, the world spinning on an unstable axis. Apart from his own humming, he heard nothing. Just dead air, swallowing sound and ravenous for more, stealing the breath from his lungs. His head pounded as he approached the box, pressing on his eyes until it felt like they'd fall out.

 _What's in the box, what's in the box, oh jee-whiz_ _—_

He stood in front of it and suddenly he couldn't move. The box seemed to grow, looming over him as he shrunk. It moved, hummed against the dresser, playing a familiar song.

He didn't want to know what was inside anymore. Sweat _—is that sweat?_ _—_ dripped along his hairline. There was something in there, something that he _—_

 _No, no, no, no. Don't need it. No. NO_ _—_

The Joker didn't want to touch any part of it, but rage surged in him. Reaching behind him, he picked up the cowboy lamp and threw it, kicking and hitting at the room like it had the capacity to feel his anger and the pain he inflicted. He ripped the sheets off the bed, tore at the walls. The room shook, his bones rattled. He was about to attack the next thing in the room, tear him down _—_ the small, frozen boy. He felt rabid, feral. He wasn't a man anymore _—_ he was replaced with something dark.

But then he looked at the kid's brown eyes and felt something inside give.

_It can't._

He tackled the boy to the ground, hands around his throat and squeezing as much as his weakened arms would allow. The motions were familiar. He'd done this before. The boy didn't open his mouth to scream, only giving a glare that hit the Joker so hard he scrambled backward into something cold.

 _Nononononononononono_ _—_

The room was suddenly ice, the air in his lungs freezing with every inhale. When the boy sat up, his face changed; it was older, more familiar. Hair longer, curly, sharp cheekbones and _—_

 _NonononononononoNO_ _—_

Shutting his eyes, the Joker wanted this to stop. He wanted this to end.

 _Make it happen, make it happen, MAKE IT HAPPEN_ _—_

A warm hand cupped his cheek. Eyes opening slowly, Miriam knelt in front of him, nose almost touching his.

 _"What are you afraid of, J?"_ she asked.

"Stop _ASKING_ me that!" he screamed. He wasn't afraid. The Joker _—_ the goddamn, mother _fucking_ _JOKER_ wasn't _afraid_ of anything _—_

 _Nothing. Nope. No, no, no, no_ _—NO_ _—nada. NOTHING._

Hate kept him alive, but he didn't want it anymore. He wanted nothing. He wanted to _feel_ nothing. Pulling at his eyes, he wanted to tear them out _—_ stop his ghosts from haunting him. They couldn't hurt him if he couldn't see them.

" _I told you you'd rot. Might not be padded, but this will do."_

The Joker snapped his head up, the previous task of gouging out his own eyes forgotten, searching in the familiar black nothing for the speaker. This wasn't Miriam's voice. It was deeper. _Gravelly_.

His face felt strange, smiling so wide. Like it was foreign. But he was smiling and manic. The room, the boy, and Miriam _—_ they were finally gone. He forgot the cycles of misery—the burden of knowledge about what _they_ were doing. Someone came to visit—someone he wanted to replace everything Miriam brought.

Batman was with him. _His_ Batman.

He cackled, thunderous laughter shaking his world so hard he thought he'd die like that.

" _Finally_ _—_ c'mon. _Do it."_

Batman stood in front of him, black eyes glaring and fists curled. The Joker wanted those hammering against his skin. That's how he wanted to die. Batman finally ending what the Joker could not.

But Batman didn't answer him. He started backing away. Panic, genuine, soul-crushing panic slammed into his chest. Why was he leaving?

"No _—NO!"_ he roared, getting to his feet and chasing after the man that was more than that _—_ he was the answer to the Joker's pain. He could kill him. End this. End _him_.

Batman evaporated into the black, gone like he was never there at all.

" _COWARD!"_ he called after Batman.

He didn't get an answer. Wrath quickly followed disappointment. That was familiar. He could hold onto that.

He screamed and tore at hair that was too short, desperate for something to break, something to destroy that wasn't himself. It wasn't until he felt his roots start to give that a cold sweat broke out along his back, and then the Joker woke up.

He was still in the darkness, but he could see enough to know that he was sitting upright. Reaching out, he realized his blanket was gone. He found it bunched up in front of him, one giant ball with two tall, twisted points. In his episode, he'd actually tried creating his own Batman to hold. He was glad no one was there to see him like this. _He_ didn't want to know he was like this.

_Pathetic._

Blood and sweat dripped down the curls on his head, and something wet and hot trailed down his cheek.

_Weak._

Why did clarity have to find him then? Why did he have to realize just how much he lost, see what his sentence in hell would be?

His world rocked and he couldn't tell if it was something he was doing or if the earth decided to have the mercy to swallow him.

He'd been through worse, hadn't he? He pulled at the scars on his face, remembering the pain, ran his finger along the bottom lip that was once split done the middle and healed unevenly. He remembered how he overcame that pain and didn't lay down in the dirt to die.

_Who am I?_

He knew. The scars on his face told him. The story of his life written in blood and pain all over his body. Those were what was important. They led him to where he needed to be before, and they would again.

Repeating it over and over again, the Joker heard his music again. A sweet lullaby, chiming and ethereal. Coming from a cherrywood box.

The Joker howled, laughing because there was nothing else. He found new happiness in the pain, the only shelter he could ever hope to find.

_Embrace the madness and make it mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again everyone who's reading and following along! Your support means a lot ❤
> 
> This is very different in tone and content to Everything Burns, and I did that very purposefully. This is meant to be a dive into what makes the Joker human. He was pretty monstrous, a total bastard, who was in control of everything. That's something that stays the same with his character across continuities - his need to control everything and everyone. Going into the main sequel, it becomes important for the Joker to change. Nolan said in an interview that the Joker in The Dark Knight had no character arc because he was an absolute. Well, the Joker's getting one of those here. He's losing control - of his mind, his feelings, and what happens to him. This is an exploration of what being in a place like Arkham, where he's hated and on his own, would do to him. It leaves him vulnerable, and it's going to change who he is. As easy as it is to think of him as a monster because of what he does, the Joker is very much human - open to the same pains and fears all of us have. 
> 
> When we see the Joker in part three, you'll find out how all of what's going on with Strange and Crane factors into the larger story. What exactly they're doing will stay mysterious, but all that's needed to know for right now is that it's bad and all of the questions you have will (hopefully) be answered then. 
> 
> There's only one more chapter and then in about two weeks part three will begin! If you're not following me/this series and want to find out what happens next, then keep an eye out for the title "Desolation" and you'll be in the right place! 
> 
> I also wanna thank Boag for all her help with this chapter! 
> 
> Thank you again and see you soon ;).


	7. Why So Serious?

"Who're you, what am I doing here, and what do you want?" Brenda Sheppard asked.

The questions hit Eugene so quick he was left feeling whiplashed. The woman in front of him hummed with the energy of a honeybee, tightly wound brown curls bouncing with her emphatic hand gestures as she waved a half-eaten biscotti around.

"I-I'm Eugene Klein, d-didn't you get that from m-my email—"

"Yeah, I got your _name_ , but you didn't exactly explain much," she interrupted, dipping the biscotti in her latte and taking a big bite, scrutinizing Eugene as her round cheeks bulged. Instead of waiting for Eugene to speak, she continued with her mouth full, "C'mon, don't have all day. This's my morning coffee break."

Brenda looked about ready to pop out of her seat, her leg bouncing high and heel of her stiletto clicking against the Starbuck's tiled floor. Eugene was nervous around her for completely different reasons than Strange—she eerily reminded him of a teacher he had in elementary school. She had been nice, but she had terrified Eugene with her sheer willpower and force of personality. Brenda wasn't what he expected out of the lawyer representing the Joker—a woman who defended him with so much zeal for a pro bono case.

"U-Um, you see, I-I work at the hospital. S-Sorry— _not_ the hospital—"

"C'mon, kid, spit it out," she said, swallowing.

He didn't know why so many people called him that. Eugene was a twenty-four-year-old _man_ , but he still rubbed at his stubble-less chin self-consciously.

 _Just take a deep breath,_ he thought.

"I'm trying to—listen, I-I work at Arkham—"

"Hey, what the hell you talking to me for? I'm in the middle of filing a _lawsuit_ on your sketchy asses," Brenda said, taking her half-drunk latte and pushing away from the small table. "You can talk to me in _court—"_

"W-Wait! P-Please, that's… that's not why I'm here," he said, holding out his hands in a gesture meant to make her stay. This wasn't going the way Eugene envisioned. He thought it would be more like what happened in the movies, where everything was understood within a few sentences and plans were hatched with relative ease. They certainly didn't teach him anything like this in school.

_Say it, Eugene._

"I… I need your help."

She looked at him skeptically, chin high and peering down her long nose at him. When Eugene pulled out a crinkled manila envelope from his bag, her eyes sharpened.

"I don't represent _you_ , kid. Think you're talking to the right person? I'm _suing_ Arkham for mal-practice, more than a dozen health-code violations, falsifying documents, medical negligence, civil conspiracy—"

"Th-That's what I want to help with," Eugene said, finally able to get a word in edgewise. "They're… something's wrong, but I don't know who to talk to. You—you seemed like… a good option."

Eugene felt like an idiot. Why did he think this was a good idea again? Brenda took another bite of her biscotti before sitting back down, chewing slowly.

"OK, keep talking," she said between bites.

Eugene sighed in relief. "I-It's not so much about talking as it is—oh, just read these," he said, emptying the envelope and pushing its contents across the table, looking over his shoulder at the rest of the crowded café with its lineup of people waiting for their pumpkin-spice-something. "They… it's everything I—I could get before i-it was noticed."

Looking from him to the papers, Brenda started to read. It was patient medical records, inconsistent injuries with treatment and extreme behaviour changes, a slow paper trail of how patients disappeared from all record without any supporting release documents, and the long list of patients housed in isolation cells. Brenda held everything she needed to win.

Her eyes narrowed and then widened as she read, her mouth opening slightly. But instead of seeing concern on her face, Eugene saw something he couldn't recognize. Brenda seemed like an upfront person, brash and honest, but the glint in her eye looked greedy. Like she found out an investment had paid off.

The firm she worked for was large, Eugene knew, but he didn't know anything about the undercurrents that were the bedrock of Gotham. He knew the obvious things—which families to avoid, where you didn't visit after ten o'clock, and to never go walking outside after dark—but he never considered who made things run they way they were supposed to, exactly how big-name criminals avoided substantial jail time. Eugene looked at Brenda and saw a way to correct the mismanagement and abuses plaguing those who had no recourse to fight it. He wanted to believe in the good in people, and that, deep down, most wanted to help just as much as he did.

Growing up in Milwaukee did Eugene no favours in Gotham City.

"You understand it'll be hard for me to use this in court without naming you, right?" she said, looking at him from above the papers and photographs in her hands. "These guys are gonna drag your name through the mud if it goes to court. You ready for that, kid?"

Eugene swallowed, stared at his trembling hands and thought hard. "Y-Yes, I-I know. But I can't… I can't do just _nothing."_ He didn't know why he felt so emotional about this, why he decided to stick his neck out, but it felt too late to back down. "W-Will you be—be able to do something?" he asked, forcing himself to meet her eye and plead.

Tilting her head, brown curls swaying around her like they were alive, Brenda smiled widely. Where she was vivacious before, she went still and calm. Eugene hoped he made the right decision, even as his stomach twisted.

"Yeah—yeah, I think I can, kid," she said, neatly straightening the documents before sliding them into her bag. Standing, she kept the smile on her face and stretched out a hand to shake Eugene's. His too-warm hand clasped her cool one. "Look, I like you. I'll keep your name out of it. You did the right thing, Eugene. This'll help a lot of people—not just Joker. Leave this to me and keep your head down, OK?"

Relief surged in Eugene and _he_ felt like the energetic one for the first time in months. "Th-Thank you, really. Just—you have my number, call or something if you need—"

"Nah, it's alright. Best to keep things radio-silent, get what I mean? Don't use your work email for anything about this. Don't make any calls while you're there. Just… everything's right as rain, kid."

They parted that way, Brenda smiling and Eugene standing in place like he was glued there. He hoped with everything he had that this part at least would work out like it did in the movies, where the guy doing the right thing wouldn't be let down. He held onto that feeling, even as he saw Brenda's smile fade as she walked out into the chilly fall air, face transforming as it withered away and something else Eugene didn't recognize took its place.

* * *

Hugo Strange pinched the bridge of his nose, Amadeus Arkham's journal splayed on his desk. There was so much more hidden in the tight scrawl that needed discovering, only requiring the time to decipher its secrets. But he'd been looking at it too long, the madness blurring the genius until his eyes were too tired for the task.

"Careful, Hugo. Someone might think you were fostering an unhealthy habit."

"Jonathan," Strange said in greeting, dragging his eyes up to watch the lanky man enter his office. Despite his size, Crane had gained some fullness back in his cheeks. A little bit of colour, too. His recent freedoms at the asylum weren't being put to waste. "What do I owe the pleasure? Do you have progress you would like to report?"

Crane took the high-backed leather chair adjacent to Strange by the window, crossing his legs and folding his hands together in his lap, the mid-afternoon sun making his hair look red. "Not particularly. It's much of the same. 1309 has been added to the trials. Otherwise, our progress is as it was last week: one could say we are 'stumped'." A small smile that didn't reach his eyes curled the corners of his lips, his head tilting to the side ever so slightly. "I believe we need to pursue another route of medication—something that responds to the accompanying implementations better," Crane said, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses.

"I believe you may be correct," Strange said after a moment's consideration. "Do you have any recommendations? You are, after all, the resident authority on the mind's responses to stimuli."

Crane's smile pulled up on one side of his face, turning genuine. His work—and his ability to do it without skulking around like a paranoid degenerate—was the first thing in a long time that brought him joy. He had been taking full advantage of his new privileges in the asylum. Allowed more clothes from his usual wardrobe preferences, having an implicit agreement with the TYGER guards that he had free reign of the asylum, and the ability to refine the formulae he'd developed for years were all the things Crane really needed. He did not care much for the outside world, save for the freedom to move about on occasion. But even that could eventually be arranged. For now, working with Strange was the most beneficial position.

Strange and Crane had not been idle in their time together. Many mistakes had been made, but they were getting closer, Strange was certain. Trial and error were certainties of the scientific method, and both men had no shortage of patience.

Despite all of this, Crane still got bored. He was starved for company, and Strange was his only recourse in that regard. It had pained him in the beginning, but Crane began to enjoy testing Strange, analyzing him like he did everything else.

"Are you enjoying this?" Crane asked instead of answering Strange.

"I am afraid you will have to be more specific."

Crane showed a rare glimpse of his teeth. "Oh, I believe you know what I mean. _That_ ," he pointed to the journal in front of Strange, pushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear, "seems to have started something for you, has it not? People do not do what _we_ do unless there's something more than just idle curiosity." His voice was quiet, nearly a murmur, but his eyes were intense, drawing out an honest answer.

Strange nodded, conceding the point. "No, of course not. Bringing unnecessary suffering without a greater purpose give me no enjoyment, Jonathan. Can you say the same?"

He lied. Strange _was_ enjoying his work. Yes, it had a purpose, but that didn't mean it only had one use. His only response from Crane was the continued smile, prodding further explanation.

"I am only interested in learning about what makes people do _what_ they do, you understand. What drives them, what formed them into who they are now. Some are just… better challenges than others," Strange said. He thought of the Joker languishing in the dark in the next wing. Even after more than six months of carving at his mind, the man had still not spilled his secrets. Not all of them, anyway—just enough to encourage Strange to keep digging. He was getting close there, too. "The individual, when studied independently, shows great complexity. When studied together, however, things become much simpler, do they not? Easy to predict and understand."

"I'd be inclined to agree, but you're still not answering my question. Not honestly, anyway." Crane didn't know why this sudden urge of prodding at Strange had taken over him, they had kept their relationship professional in the last eight months. Moving into the personal was always dangerous territory.

 _But the data found there is what_ I _enjoy,_ Crane thought.

"Why do any of this? Enlist the help of Gotham's undesirables to play God with people who will not be missed? Don't tell me it's for academic purposes. You wouldn't be reading that journal if that were the case," Crane said, pointing at the journal again with a short jerk of his pointed chin.

Leaning back in his chair, Strange considered Crane's words. He wasn't wrong, and Strange saw no harm in speaking to _someone_ about all of this. Crane had nowhere to go. He'd be arrested if he managed to escape, Strange had his TYGER guards at his disposal, the power of Gotham City behind him, and the fallback plan of subjecting Crane to the very program he helped develop if he became too much to control.

His smile disappeared as he adjusted his glasses. "Did you know Elizabeth Arkham saw visions before her death?"

Crane cocked his head to the side, curious about the new tangent. Playing along, he shrugged his shoulders. He knew of Amadeus, but not about the specifics of the family. Rising from his desk, Strange began to pace.

"Amadeus wrote that she was plagued with them for months, seeing the same apparition every time. Apparently, she would scream about it for hours." Strange's voice dropped a pitch, and Crane noted that the anecdote was one that brought Strange an intriguing sense of pleasure. "When she was lucid, she would describe it as a 'large, winged man with long claws at the end and leather-like skin.' She likened it to a bat—a giant one who waited outside her window at night."

Crane straightened, his interest growing beyond the clinical. His mind went to the same place Strange's did: Batman.

"And this interested Amadeus?" Crane was being coy, but he wanted to see exactly how far down Strange's rabbit hole went, and Strange was all too eager to share what he had kept to himself for over two years.

"At first, it was a symptom of his mother's sickness. Another reason to give Elizabeth a merciful death."

"You mean euthanasia. Or, technically, murder," Crane interjected.

"Yes, yes," Strange said, waving away the comment, "but it became more, you see."

"More ravings of a madman, then." Crane rolled his eyes, reclining back and resting his chin on his fist.

"No, Jonathan. After Amadeus was committed, his doctors reported something similar. His obsession with bats—this _creature_ —defined his last waking moments."

Crane narrowed his eyes. "You've lost me, I'm afraid."

No, Strange hadn't, but Crane enjoyed making him spell it out. And Strange was too engrossed to care.

"Did you know that the Mayans worshipped a deity called Camazotz?"

 _OK,_ now _he's lost me,_ Crane thought. He adjusted his posture as Strange's pace increased.

"'Death bat,' it means. Lord of sacrifice, night, and death." Strange's voice was still low, seductive to the ear.

"You believe they're connected, this… Mayan bat and the delusions of the ill?"

Crane had lost the point, but Strange's mind was clear. Stopping his pacing, Strange walked to Crane, leaning against the window sill. The smile on his face would have been unsettling to any other observer, but it only further piqued Crane's interest. This was all part of the game, another move on the chessboard. Strange was exposing his flank, and Crane debated exactly how he would exploit that weakness.

"Not connected, but… an alignment of sorts. Is it not a sign of something greater that a man embodying those same qualities should be here, active in our lifetime?"

Finally, Crane understood. Rather thinking that Strange was riding the high of his own delusions—which was already obvious—he thought the man in front of him had caught the fever that had enraptured so many others already, himself included.

"Except, of course, Batman doesn't kill," Crane said. He wasn't immune to that obsession, that draw to something extraordinary. But his was limited—stopping just short of hyper-fixation. Batman was a nuisance. A man with his own lion's share of conditions that Crane would enjoy breaking apart. But brute strength and mental acuity rarely mixed, and Crane knew that well enough. The memory of Batman's fists connecting with his face fifteen months later, and how vivid it all still felt, was proof of that. "And he's just a man. Not a god."

Strange pushed away from the window, unusually active. Crane realized that this was the longest they'd kept up a continuous conversation that didn't revolve around their work.

"No, he is not a god. You are correct," Strange said, cocking his head, taking in the courtyard—the same one he'd stared out at every day for over a year—and his mind dwelled on another place. A room in his flat north of Chinatown. "But he is—"

"Afternoon, gentlemen."

Both men swerved their heads to the door, and Strange had a rare look of surprise on his face. A short black woman with tight, curly brown hair stood at the doorway, holding a large briefcase in her hand. Strange had seen her before—on the news and as he sat across from her in depositions.

Brenda Sheppard was in his office.

Lyle Kitson, his assistant, burst into the room, face red and lips blubbering. "I-I'm sorry, Dr Strange, she—"

"Leave us, Lyle," Strange barked, going back to his desk and putting several files overtop Amadeus' journal. Brenda arched an eyebrow, and Strange motioned her to sit in the chair in front of his desk. Once Lyle was gone and the door closed, Strange focused the entirety of his wrath on Brenda. "Whatever your intentions of being here include, I suggest—"

"Never would've been one to think the _great_ Dr Strange would take patient sessions in his personal office," Brenda interrupted. She smiled, eyes sliding toward Crane, who was sitting back with a gleam of excitement, and, for Strange, it was like staring at an all-knowing fox. "Seems to be a lot of interesting things going on here."

"If I remember correctly, we do not have a meeting until January," Strange said, trying to restore his sense of calm and push back his rage. "Why are you here?"

Instead of answering, Brenda leaned down and pulled up her briefcase. Reaching inside, she plopped a heavy folder on the desk and kept her eyebrow raised.

"And this is…?"

"Is everything I need to send your ass to jail, Strange." Strange froze and Jonathan took on a look of giddiness, but Brenda continued, "But I'm not going to do that."

Regaining some semblance of life, Strange made his mouth move. "And why would that be?"

"Because that's not what we both want, is it?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

"And what is it that I want?"

Strange momentarily forgot about Crane, but the man was listening with rapt attention. Brenda leaned forward, her dark skin turning warm with the last rays of the late fall sun coming through the window. Her lips pulled back, showing white teeth, but no one would describe it as a smile.

* * *

_All around me are familiar faces  
Worn out places, worn out faces_

Was he singing? The Joker couldn't tell anymore. His throat felt funny.

_Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha._

His hands were warm, fingers holding something tight. He thought it was Miriam's hand, but it was his torn blanket, his hands grasping between the ruined fabric.

_Bright and early for their daily races  
Going nowhere, going nowhere_

The Joker couldn't really feel his body anymore. Stabs of sensations and spots of burning—hot and cold—were all over the room. His body was one with the space, the darkness.

_Their tears are filling up their glasses  
No expression, no expression_

His pain was everything. It was the air in his lungs, the crushing weight of nothing. He was floating. He was sinking. He was everywhere. He was nowhere.

He was the King of Contradictions and perfectly satisfied with that.

_Hide my head, I want to drown my sorrow  
No tomorrow, no tomorrow_

_"How long will you hold onto this, J?"_ Miriam asked. The Joker didn't answer. He didn't have a reason to be alive anymore; he just _was. "How long do you want to stay in the dark?"_

_And I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had_

She appeared in front of him, hovering over his essence. Her hair rained down, and he hated her so much he felt a rush of feeling starting at his feet— _are they my feet?—_ that crawled up his legs. Hate made him feel alive. But it wasn't just hate anymore.

Miriam made him feel… he didn't know if he wanted to call it human, but it made him feel _something_. She was the last remaining connection to what was left of his body, what kept him from chasing his Bat. She took away the things that made the wish for death more immediate. With her, nothing had to hurt. Not unless he wanted it to.

He'd realized something he'd missed since his epiphany, when he knew and accepted that his mind was broken. Something so _obvious._

_Love and hate. They're the same._

Something— _a hand, maybe?—_ reached up and brushed the hair back from Miriam's face as she smiled at him. Sometimes she brought black shadows with her, dark wings spreading behind her back and growing pointed ears. Right then, a halo of white made her glow. The images always changed but the feelings stayed the same.

_I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take_   
_When people run in circles it's a very very_   
_Mad world, mad world_

"A-Are you—you awake?"

Miriam knew the answer to that. The Joker was asleep. He was always asleep.

"H-Hey—a-are you…" Miriam's face rippled like placid water being disturbed with a pebble. The words weren't coming from her mouth. She didn't stutter like that. Something loud rang in his ears. "Are—are you awake?"

Light pierced through the halo, blinding him and erasing Miriam's face entirely. He called out, reaching for the one thing that made him feel anything at all.

"Um, are—are you awake in there?"

A different face was in front of his. Pale skin and short hair. Glasses and a look of deep concern.

"Am I?" the Joker asked, throat scratchy and weird.

The face turned away, and the Joker's eyes adjusted. He took in his surroundings like they were something coming through a TV. Bare feet, scratched and bloody, torn fabric littering the floor like limp confetti, figures milling outside a rectangle made of light. It was a sensory overload, a large dose of reality where none had existed. The Joker began to laugh.

"Can't, ah, fool me, Miri," he chuckled, wild and unhinged. This was a trick. Had to be. They'd tear this away as they tried with everything else. "'I will fill your mountains with the _dead_. Your hills... your valleys, and your streams'." He didn't know how he remembered the words, but they took on a new meaning and he howled. "'They'll be filled with... people _slaughtered_ by the sword'."

Fresh faces appeared in front of him. They didn't belong to Strange, not to Crane. One was familiar—a nervous young man the Joker couldn't place. It was Eugene, but the Joker long ago erased him from any immediate recognition.

"Take him to the medical wing," another voice said.

This was part of the dream, he was sure. A new trick conjured up to break him. It wouldn't work—would _never_ work. Because he knew something important, something the Joker had realized in the dark.

_Mad world, mad world._

"'I'll make you _desolate_ forever.'" Life was a joke. _Living_ was a joke. A placeholder for the inevitable conclusion. "'Your cities will... _burn_. Then _... then_ you will know that I am _God.'"_

That's what made it so funny. They didn't know, would _never_ know. It was a shared joke, between him and the cosmic Creator. The one who had left them behind. He was laughing and the Joker shared in on the same joke.

Love and hate were one and the same. Reality and fiction had no distinction. Contradictions and certainties were both truths.

The world, life, the universe—it might not matter, hold no meaning, but he could add his own. And he would. He'd find the reason in the madness. Become his own God.

And the Joker would have his revenge. _That's_ what became part of the truth. _That's_ the law of the universe—of Order and Chaos.

He might not have realized it, but the Joker was still laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you all for your support of this short intermediary series. I'm glad you've been enjoying it and I hope it's whetted your appetite for the craziness that's going to happen in part three!
> 
> I didn't resolve much here (seems to be a habit of mine, doesn't it?), but all of this factors into what happens 'behind the scenes' in Desolation. Through means unknown for right now, the Joker is being taken out of the 'treatment plan' he was being subjected to. Brenda Sheppard is an OC, a mysterious one at that, but her intervention, and who she actually works for, also factors in later. Crane isn't as powerless as he might seem at the moment. Things are brewing that also plays a significant part later. Any of you who know the character of Hugo Strange might understand where his obsession with bats leads, and what some of his potential motivations could be behind all of this whacked-out weirdness he has going on.
> 
> The Joker endured incredibly trying strains on his mind in this short series. It's twisted him further, warped his perception of other characters and his eventual motivations later on. He's angry, but his certainty in himself is also more solid in a way, too. All of this leads to him being different in Desolation, and now you'll have an inkling as to why. At the end of his scene, the Joker's quoting from the bible, the book of Ezekiel in chapter 35. It's prophetic of his motivations, but whether those are realized is another thing you'll find out later (I feel so cruel right now, I'm sorry!).
> 
> Anyways, I'm back again in a couple of weeks with the first chapter of Desolation! 
> 
> You guys are the best, and thank you for supporting this story! ❤
> 
> P.S. the lyrics are from "Mad World" by Gary Jules. 


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